


Light me up (like a cigarette)

by ChildOfTheRevolution



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Depression, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, OC's - Freeform, Past Drug Use, Poverty, Suicidal Thoughts, hands on Les Amis, prostitute!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 67,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChildOfTheRevolution/pseuds/ChildOfTheRevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- He was looking more twinkish by the week as the muscle he used to have after years of boxing wasted away from disuse and not eating properly; his ribs starting to poke through his skin. </p><p>Grantaire both welcomed and despised his newfound skinny; men would always pay more to fuck someone who looked like a teenager, and with his hair growing longer, and his face thinner he looked like he was almost 16 again. Grantaire thanked god for perverted johns and their underage teenage fantasies; they paid his rent. -</p><p>(Or the one where Grantaire is a troubled prostitute and Enjolras and his friends just want to help.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just let me burn

**Author's Note:**

> First time Les Mis fic - enjoy!

\- Grantaire

  

Grantaire sighed as he pushed open the door to his tiny, dingy apartment. His head ached and his knees were skinned and the twinge in his hips told him there would be bruises there for the new couple of weeks at least. 

But at least he would have enough money to pay his rent this week. Maybe not his food but he’d rather go starving then live on the streets. Living on the streets was bad news, especially for someone like him. 

He collapsed on his bed. Actually it was sort of presumptuous to call it a bed, it was really a mattress he had saved from the dumpster a year or so ago which he dragged to the corner of his room, dropped it and hadn't moved it since. It was the only real bit of comfort in the bare room his landlord (slumlord more like) Montparnasse called an apartment.

He stuck his hand over the side of the mattress and pulled over the last of his cask wine, downing it to get rid of the gross taste that had been left in his mouth from work and almost gagged when it made it worse. Sadly there hadn't been enough to get him drunk, although there wasn't the money for the amount of alcohol that got him drunk nowadays.

As his gaze landed on a cockroach scuttling across his dirty floors Grantaire sighed, wondering if there was any point telling Montparnasse. Probably not. With the little rent he let Grantaire get away with there was no point complaining. Montparnasse would probably proposition him for the millionth time then leave in a dirty mood when Grantaire turned him down. It wasn’t that Montparnasse wasn’t good looking, because he was, he could probably have been a model in a life where his drug addicted mother and alcoholic drug dealing father hadn’t pimped him out as a teenager and left him some sort of sociopath with a penchant for designer clothes. And Grantaire preferred to bed men who paid him rather then bed slumlord drug dealers suspected on multiple counts of murder.  
He had his pride after all.

Grantaire shuffled through his empty cupboards looking for the vodka he couldn’t remember drinking the night before, glaring at the pockets of cold snow glazed sunlight streaking into his kitchenette from the holey moth eaten curtains on his windows. He hated working so long that he was awake when the sun came up but the pickings had been scarce this week, Christmas time always awakening people’s mind to the fact that paying to fuck a guy was probably considered a sin and severely frowned upon by Jesus, God and or any other spiritual entities. 

Grantaire snorted, it would pick up again after new years, it always did. Once the Christmastime goodwill and excitement settled and new years resolutions were broken people’s thoughts about sinning and hell went back into their predictable patterns, which was that they were forgotten about, hidden, kept safe until next Christmas. Once again married men, (supposedly) straight men, bi-curious college kids and poor lonely souls were back in droves and Grantaire might be able to feed himself again, or get blackout drunk so he could forget his miserable, shitty excuse for a life. Lots to look forward to.

Grantaire flopped own onto his mattress ignoring the pain from his ass and hips as he reached for his bottle of vodka frowning at his grimy fingernails, Grantaire vaguely thought about cleaning himself up, he could feel the gravel in his knees and he didn't fancy them getting infected, not again; you cant give blow jobs in an alley when you can’t kneel. His decision, however, was made for him when his eyelids slid closed of their own accord and he drifted into an exhausted sleep. 

The next time Grantaire awoke the sun streaks were still on his floor but were more orange then blue, which meant it was sunset and time to wake. He groggily pushed himself up, wincing at the sharp pain in his head; which wasn't the result of a non-existent hangover but rather that bastard john last night pulling Grantaire’s hair way too hard when he came down his throat and now his head felt like it was on fire. He shuffled his way to the corner of his room contemplated his dirty clothes situation. It was not good, he would probably have to use his precious coins down at the laundromat in the next few days. 

He stumbled his way to the bathroom and inspected himself in the cracked full-length mirror grimacing when he saw his knees, yeah they looked like shit, he’d have to invest in some sort of knee pads at the amount of blow jobs he had given the past few months. He also saw the hand shape bruises on his hips, a faint blue purple color looking horribly stark against his very pale skin. Grantaire grimaced as cleaned himself as well as he could, tweezing the majority of the gravel out and watching as the water swirled pink down the drain. He did an OK job given the shitty water pressure, and he stumbled into some clothes. Tight black jeans that wouldn't show dirt and a skintight green sweater that sometimes rode up. It was a concession to the weather that he wasn't wearing a skimpy t-shirt but rather a knitted beanie he had shoved onto his head. He was looking more twinkish by the week as the muscle he used to have after years of boxing wasted away from disuse and not eating properly and his ribs started to poke through. Grantaire both welcomed and despised his newfound skinny; men would always pay more to fuck someone who looked like a teenager, and with his hair growing longer and his face thinner he looked like he was almost 16 again. Thank god for perverted johns and their underage teenage fantasies. It paid his rent. Great, like his teenage years were any better then the life he lived now.

Grantaire grabbed the last of the shitty vodka from beside his mattress and downed it before brushing his teeth and then headed out to his favorite coffee place for something to wake himself up. It was a few hours before business would pick up and he liked to people watch at the Corinth, imagining what their lives were like, downing black coffee like it was soda to get some life back into his cold, dead limbs.

The coffee crowd was slightly different tonight Grantaire noticed as he half smiled at the pretty woman at the counter who normally served him. There were the usual businessmen in suits coming in after work (a few carefully avoiding his eyes - those were the ones he would see later tonight no doubt), a few old timers hauled up in the booths. Other regulars whom he recognized including the group of college boys (books, un-ironic sweater vests and oversized hipster glasses) laying claim to 3 or 4 tables at the back of the cafe like they did every week or so. They were bundled up for the cold, Grantaire noticed eyeing their expensive coats and scarfs with envy, his eyes inevitably resting on the beautiful blond headed guy he had nicknamed Apollo. Apollo seemed to be their leader of sorts, and Grantaire could see why, not only did his outstanding looks draw almost every eye in the coffee shop but when he spoke it was with a passion and intensity that Grantaire had yet to witness before in his short 24 years, not that his life brought him many opportunities to mingle with men of integrity. 

Apollo was like a beacon, his voice never raised but always holding his audiences attention. From the snippets of what Grantaire overheard they were some sort of political advocacy group which really should had really put him off Apollo from the get go and normally would have, Grantaire couldn't stand any of that do-gooder idealist shit, especially from fresh faced boys who no idea what the real world was like. But Grantaire was fucked up like that, show him something that was in any way bad for him and he ran at it head first. And Apollo was bad for him, no doubt about it, he was the only reason he drank coffee at the overpriced coffeehouse 4 blocks out of his way. 

He surreptitiously watched them for a while as they conversed between each other with the ease of close-knit friends and he felt another stab of envy. He once had friends like that, back in the day; back before his life turned to shit or worse then it was, which wasn’t hard.

When he felt suitably buzzed from the caffeine and the alcohol in his system and it turned to full night outside he slipped out of the cafe, oblivious to a few glances from the college boy group still inside. He walked briskly to ward off the biting cold before he found his corner he shared with the usual group of characters, a few guys like him (skinnier and more haunted, Tom and Jim) as well as Gem (who was a meth head and other from the crazy mood swings was actually quite sweet), Casey (blonde and skinny with track marks up her arms) and Lu-Lu (the newest and most healthy looking of the lot). Grantaire situated himself by the street lamp; not only did it give him something to lean on but the light showed off his blue eyes and cheekbones and he needed all the help he could get to attract customers. 

By the time 10.30pm rolled around Grantaire was getting antsy, the caffeine was wearing off, the cold was starting to burn up the alcohol in his system and he had counted only 5 cars that had rolled through and no one was looking for what he was dishing. He was so fucking thankful that he decided on the beanie as the air he breathed out turned to mist in front of him and he surreptitiously tried to rub feeling back into his alarmingly pale fingers. 

Finally a clean looking van pulled up at the end of the street where a lot of the homeless slept and Grantaire almost got his hopes up until a group of guys got out of the van and Grantaire realized who they were. They were the do-gooders, the (usually) religious hacks who came out every so often to give out blankets, clothes and food to the homeless but kept their distance from the likes of Grantaire and Casey. Grantaire usually ignored them as much and they ignored him. He had a job to do and he’d rather not be judged by religious fanatics and other charities that preached acceptance, but practiced exclusion on the shaky basis of their “morality”. He still shuddered at the memory of being called a fag and being spat on by one as they drove past him. Who were they to judge him when the only way he was able to keep a roof over his head was to whore? Would they rather him be homeless and losing limbs to frostbite like the ones being tended at the end of his street? He was a least lucky that he had relative youth and wasn’t squeamish about giving head. He did what he had to, to survive. So now he steered well clear.

In fact the cold had gotten so bad that Gem had already left and Tom and Jim were debating it. Grantaire was sorely tempted to as well, his fingers were completely numb and turning blue and his nose felt like an icicle. His internal debate between paying his rent this week and staying out in the cold raged until his attention was drawn to what looked like an argument between two of the do-gooders. He could barely make them out in the lightly falling snow but one was slightly taller with blonde hair and pale features and Grantaire’s eyes widened as immediately recognized the blond; it was Apollo. The shorter brunet was gesturing toward Grantaire’s end of the street and their voices were raised. 

Apollo dropped his shoulder and huffed out a breath before walking back to the van and returning with some bundled items in his hand and heading for Grantaire’s end of the street. Grantaire watched the two figures curiously as they made their way past the homeless and the other guys in their group handing out what look like soup and blankets, and toward Lu-Lu who looked at them warily, her eyes sweeping up and down the street no doubt for a quick getaway if she needed, Grantaire did the same when he approached by john that alerted his internal alarm. A conversation was had between her and the guys and then she smiled at them in gratitude, well at the shorter one at least. And Grantaire was a little surprised, Lu-Lu didn't smile at anyone, not even the johns she picked up, it was all part of her charm she had once confessed to Grantaire. Grantaire suspected she had had any happiness beaten out of her by her pimp years ago. But here she was, smiling at the bundle of something Apollo and the short guy had given her. 

Grantaire stiffened as they made their way over to Casey, then Tom and Jim who all smiled gratefully at them, Jim even pulling on the warm coat they had given him as he and Tom headed out of the street, and then finally to Grantaire. As they ambled over, he stiffened even more watching them cautiously, he didn't really want to be lectured about sinning against god and going to hell, not tonight, not when he felt like his nose as about to freeze and fall off. 

The shorter one had brown hair stuffed under a glaringly blue and yellow striped beanie, which clashed with his bright orange scarf and burgundy jacket. But he had kind eyes. Grantaire turned his attention Apollo and sucked in a breath, he was even more beautiful up close, pure and utter magnificent beauty and Grantaire felt his hands itch to sculpt, as they hadn't in a long while. He studied the man’s features, Apollo, Grantaire decided was an apt moniker, he was the living embodiment of the statues and paintings Grantaire used to pore over to give him inspiration; porcelain skin and blonde curls, icy blue stare that cut right through him so much so that Grantaire struggled to tear his gaze away when the shorter one started talking. When he did he was met with a blinding smile and an outstretched hand.

“Jehan’s the name and this here’s Enjolras”, he said gesturing to the stone faced beauty incarnate next to him. Grantaire had to give a grim smile, Enjolras certainly lived up to his name, if he wasn’t mistaken Enjolras meant ‘to terrify’. 

Grantaire cautiously eyed Jehan’s hand and decided against shaking it, his own hands having difficulty grasping as numb as they were. Grantaire noted that Apollo, sorry Enjolras, didn't seem as forthcoming with words here then he did back in the cafe, “Uh, I’m Grantaire.”

Jehan dropped his hand and looked at him quizzically before his expression cleared and he clapped his hands, “Grantaire! You looked so familiar for a moment, were you at the Corinth earlier this evening? I could have sworn that was you in that beanie.”

Grantaire nodded, “Yeah that was me”, he said slowly waiting for the pin to drop. They were, or Jehan was at least, being very nice for a neo conservative religious do-gooder, maybe this is how they lured you in with smiles and kindness before indoctrinating people into their cult. And Enjolras? Well Grantaire couldn't make heads or tails of him, except that he looked slightly uncomfortable and a little pissed off, not an unusual reaction people had upon meeting Grantaire, so he got a pass for now. 

“Anyway, we were just doing a spot of Care down this end and we spied you guys here at the end, freezing your butts off and we thought you might want some soup!” Jehan said enthusiastically, holding out what appeared to be a steaming thermos.

Grantaire blinked at him for a second and looked down at the soup before cautiously taking it from Jehan’s outstretched hand, his freezing hands clumsily fumbling with it before almost dropping it. Jehan yelped and Grantaire fought with himself not to shrink back from the noise, it wasn’t a conscious reaction, Grantaire had just developed a sort of instinctive reaction to loud noises because in his line of business it usually meant trouble in the form of police sirens, drunken yelling or the beginnings of a fight. 

“Holy shit your hands are cold!” Jehan said grabbing Grantaire’s soup free hand in his and looking at the blue tipped fingernails.

”Fuck. Enjolras look at this.” Jehan said worriedly shoving Grantaire’s hand in Enjolras’ face, as Grantaire was too surprised to resist. He could feel his face heating slightly as Enjolras’ studied his hands and prodded at his slightly blue fingertips.

”Early signs of hypothermia. You need to go to the hospital.” Enjolras said in a clipped voice, his features stone, and his eyes intense, such as contrast with his angelic features. 

Grantaire grimly noted that the first words Enjolras deigned to say to him were orders and his own eyes narrowed, they might not be religious nutjobs but he didn’t like being ordered around, not one little bit. 

Grantaire snatched his had back shoving it into his back pocket, “I’m fine thanks. I don’t need to go anywhere.” Even as he said it he could feel himself growing dizzier by the second.

Enjolras’ glare solidified, “You’ve lost dexterity in your fingers, your speech is slightly slurred, you’re trembling and you’re breathing shallowly. If you don’t go to the hospital you need to go to someplace warm at least.”

Jehan peered at Grantaire worriedly, “We can take you to hospital if you like. Or to a friend’s place? You don’t look so good you know.”

Grantaire wrapped his arms around his shaking torso and gave a bitter laugh, “Do I look like someone who has health insurance? I’m not going to hospital just so they can kick me out on my ass. And I’ve got no one to go to. Just leave me. I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine, he could tell as his sight started to blur slightly and he leaned more heavily against the lamppost.

Jehan bit his lip and looked at Enjolras beseechingly. Enjolras was still glaring at Grantaire before he cutting back to Jehan and finally sighed, “Fine Jehan. He can come back to ours.”

Before Grantaire could protest going home with two strangers, Jehan nodded and went to put an arm around him, once again instinctively Grantaire flinched back from his touch and lost his balance on the slippery sidewalk. The last thing he saw before going down onto the icy sidewalk was Jehan and Enjolras outstretched arms and worried faces. At least he would die looking at true beauty his mind supplied helpfully before it all went black.


	2. Cash, fire and burn

-Enjolras

 

Enjolras exhaled, as he looked down at the knocked out prostitute currently taking residence on his couch. This wasn’t the way he had planned to spend his evening; in fact after Jehan had dragged him on a Care run, he had planned to drink some tea (non-caffeinated, herbal maybe?), finish up a paper, do some meditation and head to bed. 

The perfect evening. 

But no, now, because of Jehan, they had an emaciated streetwalker in their apartment being fussed over by Joly. He would of felt badly about calling Joly to help if not for the crazy hours he seems to keep. Plus it was Joly, the only person Enjolras knows that gets both nauseous and excited over sick people. Joly was special. 

Enjolras started to pace as Joly fussed over Grantaire and had to stop himself. And stop grinding his teeth. He knew the signs and he tried to relax, it was easy to distance yourself from ‘The Cause’ when you stood on a podium and fought for the rights of people like this, it was harder when one of them lay sick in his living room.

”Is he going to be ok?” Jehan asked quietly from where he was sitting cross-legged beside the couch, his hands wrapped around a warm mug. His face was sweating slightly, but that was because they had turned up the thermostat as high as it could go to try and warm Grantaire up.

“His core temperature’s increased and the tips of his fingers are pink again. He still looks a little pale but that’s probably because of the bump that he got on his head when he fell.” Joly said putting his temperature wand back in the first aid kit, “I’d feel better taking him to a hospital but you said he didn't have insurance?” He asked pushing up his glasses and peering up at Enjolras, looking every inch the village GP, who nodded tightly, his body loosening slightly; relieved that their visitor was going to be okay.

Joly continued, “And if he’s hooking on the streets I bet he’d be broke so him being here until he wakes is probably best for now.”

Jehan and Enjolras nodded together, no way were they sending Grantaire back out there in this weather. Or send him away ever, if they could help it… if Enjolras could help it. 

“He’s still freezing though. We should probably get him out of these wet clothes straight away.” Joly said, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves.

“He’s a sex worker Joly, not carrying Ebola. Are the gloves really necessary?” Jehan asked, shaking his head, bringing out a pillow and some blankets from the cupboard.

Joly sniffed, “They’re not for him they’re for me, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the flu and if Grantaire caught it in his condition I’d doubt he’d survive it without having to head to the hospital.”

Joly and Jehan started with the sweater, gently pulling it over Grantaire’s head. Enjolras heard Jehan gasp from behind him, and Enjolras had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from doing something similar. 

There were purple blue bruising on top of fading green yellow bruising on Grantaire’s hips disappearing beneath his low slung jeans as well as rings of purple finger marks around his bony wrists and on the left upper arm.

For a second Enjolras had to look away, if he didn’t he wasn’t sure whether he could control his anger, there was a reason he didn’t like going out on Care runs with the rest of the guys. Firstly, he wasn’t that good with dealing with people one on one, apparently he was too intense? That’s what Combeferre said anyway. Enjolras just knew that sometimes peoples eyes started to glaze over when he was trying to tell them about the ingrained inequities in their society. So Enjolras didn’t, not anymore, not unless they specifically asked him about it. 

And secondly sometimes what he saw out on the streets made him so incensed (or what Courfeyrac called his ‘social justice Hulk’), which, admittedly, was great for delivering a passionate speech to the masses but not so good when trying to offer sympathy and compassion. As Courf constantly reminded him, these people didn’t need a lecture about the inequities in society driven by an overtly capitalistic government more concerned with money then their own people, these people already knew how unfair and harsh life can be. What they really needed was a sympathetic ear and practical solutions to sub zero temperatures and staying alive. Suffice to say that wasn’t Enjolras’ strong point, so he helped in other ways, mostly campaigning, speech writing and making soup. 

He liked to think he kept up his side, the others did the Care business and he was fine with that, usually. 

Until tonight. 

He was forced to ask himself, how many others like Grantaire had passed out from the cold? How many had died because Enjolras and Jehan weren’t there to help them? He shuddered to think about it and forced his attention back to the business of unclothing Grantaire, which admittedly didn’t make things any better, because underneath the bruises Grantaire looked even thinner and paler, his too thin chest rising and falling shallowly with each breath. 

Enjolras lent a hand to help as Jehan and Joly struggled to get the tight, damp material of Grantaire’s jeans off. When they did they saw the rest of the bruises. Grantaire’s knees were also cut up and Joly was quick to dislodge parts of gravel that were still stuck in there and disinfecting them before bandaging them up, heaving a sigh of relief when the task was done. 

Joly hated to see anyone in pain, even if said person was currently unconscious. It’s what Enjolras liked about him. There was a certain selflessness about Joly that Enjolras couldn’t help but be in awe of. 

“Is there anything you can do for the bruises?” Jehan asked haltingly, his face a mask of sympathy as he looked down at Grantaire who looked so small. 

Funny, Enjolras thought, he hadn’t looked small when he had been hostile and wary of them that night, he had looked more like a cornered injured animal; eyes flashing and hackles raised, ready to bite any hand that came near him. 

But now Enjolras couldn't help but notice the slightly noticeable bald patches on Grantaire’s head, like someone had pulled on his hair too hard; he had turn away again and swallow, it would be no good getting angry now, there was no point. 

Joly shook his head, “There’s not a lot I can do for them, they’ll hopefully go away by themselves and the bump on his head will heal on its own too, I’m more worried about his body; he’s showing signs of malnourishment. His nails are brittle and despite looking fresh the bruises and cuts are not healing at normal rate. And he looks like his showing signs of muscle wastage. It doesn't look like his had a square meal in a while.”

Enjolras nodded tightly, he had suspected as much. Grantaire did look sick. Jehan looked a little nauseous as he took in Grantaire’s frame, his pale pallor indicating he’s just noticed how sick Grantaire looked.

“Could it be an STI? I mean it is a hazard with what he does, should he get himself checked with you guys?” Jehan asked wrapping and unwrapping his scarf around his hands.

Joly nodded, as if he had already thought of that. He probably had, ‘Maybe. But I can’t do that for him, he’ll have to head in by himself, but I can leave my card for him for when he wakes? He might feel better about talking with someone about it before going, if he’s as skittish as you guys said.”

Enjolras nodded again, Joly was a godsend, a medical intern at the local hospital and volunteer at the only free sexual health clinic across town. He was passionate about safe sex and was the one who encouraged them to do Care visits to the sex workers and give out condoms, food and clothes. It had been a great addition to their work in Les Amis. 

“You guys should probably give me a call when he wakes, I’m off tomorrow.” Joly said snapping off his gloves and collecting his things. 

Jehan smiled at him and Enjolras nodded, thanking him for coming out at midnight to help them. Joly just waved him off saying he had had a shift at the hospital anyway and that it was never a hardship to help out for Les Amis, before taking his leave. 

Jehan turned to Enjolras after Joly left, “Jesus, Grantaire looks like shit. All those bruises, and do you remember how edgy Grantaire was when we approached him?”

“I thought it might have been drugs. But the track marks on his arm are old. It looks like he hasn’t shot up in awhile.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t do drugs. You know as well as I do that you don’t have to shoot up to get high.”

“Maybe, but apart from hypothermic slurring I didn’t notice any other symptom of drug use?”

Jehan sighed, “Me neither, but the statistics don’t lie. All I’m saying is that we shouldn’t’ be surprised if drugs have had some sort of affect on this poor guys life. And does his life mean less to us if he is a drug addict?”

Enjolras stiffened, “Of course not, if anything it means more because he needs more help!”

Jehan smiled, like Enjolras had pleased him and Enjolras had a funny feeling he knew why but he pushed it aside as he remembered something else that he had noticed about Grantaire.

Enjolras remembered, “But he’s wariness of us was more then just drug paranoia, out of anyone he seemed the most guarded. Did you see the way his eyes kept darting around, as if he was looking for an escape? Why? We were only trying to help.”

Jehan nodded, like it had occurred to him too, “Could be just that he’s wary of people in general. Or maybe he’s wary of charities? You know as well as I do that some other organizations in town refuse to administer Care to sex workers, especially male sex workers. Maybe he’s had a bad experience?”

Enjolras clenched his hand in memory, he knew exactly what Jehan was talking about as he had butted heads with these guys on more then on one occasion (and butted heads was not a euphemism, in fact his first encounter with them after founding the Les Amis had left him in a police holding cell after one guy had started preaching to him about “fags getting what they deserve when they die on the streets”. Enjolras had thought the guy had gotten away lightly with a broken nose and fractured eye socket).

Jehan noticed the clenched hand and gave Enjolras a significant look; Enjolras unclenched and willed himself to relax. It had been an incredibly trying night, and without caffeine to get him through, he suddenly felt exhausted.

“He looked so cold out there Enjolras, and not just cold, but desperate.” Jehan said earnestly, his eyes back on Grantaire, pushing his overlong curls out of his eyes. 

“He wasn't properly dressed for the weather tonight.” Was all Enjolras could say. 

Jehan snorted and rolled his eyes, “He’s a prostitute Enjolras. Its part of his job to dress provocatively.”

Enjolras clenched jaw and looked away from Grantaire lying under a fluffy blanket, his face young and vulnerable in sleep, “I know. Doesn't mean its right.”

Jehan looked up at him in placation, ‘I know it doesn't Enjolras but I assume this was a last resort for him. I don’t think there are a lot of people that willingly become prostitutes, not the street walker kind at least.’ Jehan looked down at Grantaire thoughtfully, “I wonder what his story is. He’s young, attractive and seemed smart enough, but not all of us are as privileged as we have been I suppose.”

Enjolras agreed, with a few square meals Grantaire wouldn’t look out of place at a Les Amis meeting. It was almost frightening. “Its not the point though, Jehan.”

Jehan looked at him sadly, “I know. But this is why we do what we do right? No one should be forced into a job like this and if that’s Grantaire’s story then we need to do whatever we can to help.”

Enjolras felt his mask slip slightly, “But what if that’s the case and he doesn’t want our help?”

Jehan looked at Enjolras knowing exactly what he was really asking, “Then we have to let him go and hope he comes back to us or figures it out on his own. We’re not in the business of forcing anyone Enjolras.”

Enjolras rationally knew that, but it was hard for him to contain his instincts, which were screaming for him to lock Grantaire in their apartment until he had a least a few square meals. But, as Jehan said, they were not in the business of forcing their help on anyone, especially not to someone’s who’s options were already perceived to be limited. 

Enjolras knew you didn’t corner an angry, hungry, injured animal because they lash out in fear; you lure it with food, patience and kindness. 

And when it all went to crap, Enjolras had wished he took his own advice more seriously.


	3. Ignite it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: description of dub con (non explicit - off screen)

\- Grantaire

 

The first thing Grantaire noticed when he woke was that his mouth tasted like ass. The second thing he noticed was that where he was lying was incredibly warm and very comfortable. 

So almost immediately he started panicking, for his own bed (mattress) was never comfortable, nor was it warm and he never, ever made the mistake of staying over night at a john’s house, that was like 1-0-1 rent boy procedure.

Slowly he opened his eyes and then instantly shut them again against the brightness of the room, thus another score in the ‘not his apartment’ column, as the single flickering bulb in his apartment barely lit the room enough for Grantaire to see anything; at least it hid the mold and god knows what else stains. 

So if he wasn’t in his apartment, where the hell was he?

Slowly he opened his eyes again, feathering his lashes against the brightness of the room he was in, and opened them enough to have a quick look around. Everything from the cream walls, to the spotless carpet looked completely unfamiliar to Grantaire. Wonderful. 

Well, at least he wasn’t in someone’s bed Grantaire concluded, he was actually lying on a couch. A very comfortable couch by the feel of it. 

As he continued his keen eyed evaluation of the room seeking clues of where he might be, Grantaire came up with one very probable fact; the owner of the room was most definitely a rich fucker. Grantaire wasn’t an expert on interior design but he knew what to look for knowing how much you can get away with charging a john with a lay and this guy’s rates would be through the roof. Quality looking furniture, clean cream carpeting and shining wood floors as well as the 60 inch flat screen stationed in front of the couch he was currently laying on gave him the best indication of wealth. Fuck even the blanket laid over him probably cost this guy more then Grantaire’s fortnightly rent. 

Suddenly it occurred to him; what if he had been kidnapped? Which immediately begged the question; who the hell would want to kidnap Grantaire? A washed out alcoholic whore who couldn’t clean or cook? He’d make a horrible houseboy if that’s what his kidnapper was after.

His immediate thought on his possible kidnapper was Montparnasse. But as nicely as Montparnasse dressed, Grantaire would be surprised if he owned anywhere as nice as this place, definitely not as classy. Montparnasse’s idea of good décor from what Grantaire could gather since the last time he had been in his apartment, consisted of grey walls (probably from the smoke), a kitchen full of various drug taking paraphernalia and a bedroom full of whores. 

So probably not Montparnasse. 

Maybe someone wanted Grantaire’s kidney? No, he’d seen enough movies to know he should have woken up in an ice bath. He pulled up the blanket and checked both sides of his hips for stitches just in case. No stitches, but plenty of bruising; that, at least he remembers. 

So no kidney removal, but possibly kidnapped, but not by Montparnasse. Those were Grantaire’s options, and he didn’t like any of them. All he knew was that he needed to get out of this fancy ass room as fast as possible.

Mind made up, Grantaire quickly scrambled to his feet and almost fell over when a whoosh of dizziness overcame him. He sat down quickly and had to consider the question of how much alcohol he drunk last night to give him a hangover. Nothing gave Grantaire a hangover these days anymore. It would have had to have been tequila at least, maybe absinthe.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair as he tried desperately to remember the night before. So lost in trying to piece together the events of the day before he almost fell off the couch when he heard a quiet voice behind him, “Grantaire? Are you ok?” 

Grantaire looked up groggily into a face he vaguely recognized. Small, sweet, brown curly hair and eye-catching clothing including a overlarge yellow t-shirt with glaring royal blue lettering that read, “Cute Is What We Aim For”. 

Huh. Cute. 

“Urgh, apart from the pounding headache, the dizziness and the nausea? I’m doing ok.” Grantaire rasped, fisting his hands in his eyes trying to knuckle some of the fuzziness away. 

He looked back up at the guy. He didn’t look like a kidney snatcher or a kidnapper, not did he look like he needed a houseboy, in fact he was kind of adorable, the kind of wholesome twink that would reach way more money on the streets then Grantaire’s sorry ass ever had. 

Suddenly the thought occurred to him, was this a non-whore hook up? Did Grantaire get wasted a club and go home with someone?

Admittedly, adorable twink in the cute t-shirt wasn’t his usual type, but Grantaire wasn’t known to be fussy when there was enough tequila involved and he could have certainly done a lot worse then pulling this guy. In fact he’d be quite proud of the pull if he weren’t currently sitting on the couch. Which didn’t exactly indicate anything of a sexual nature took place with this guy. 

“Did we, uh, you know?” Grantaire said awkwardly, gesturing between them in what was the universally identified sign for ‘did we hook up?’ and the guy shook his head, smiling a little. Grantaire sighed in relief; well at least he hadn’t been kicked to the couch because he’d been lousy at sex. It was his profession after all, it would suck if he couldn’t even do sex right; its not like it was exactly rocket science. 

But then how did he kind of know the guys face in front of him? And why was the guy looking at him like Grantaire was a familiar friend? 

“Do you remember anything from last night? Do you remember me, Jehan?” The guy, apparently now called ‘Jehan’ asked worriedly, perching himself on the couch arm like a colorful little parrot.

Grantaire squinted up at Jehan, memories suddenly flashing back through his mind. He abruptly remembers being cold, really, really cold. And then Jehan was there all bright and colorful with soup. And there was also some absurdly beautiful guy there, who looked so much like an angel Grantaire was 80% convinced he had made him and. And then nothing after that, complete blackness. 

Ah, So these were the charity guys from last night Grantaire finally recalls, which made sense. And angel guy was real he remembers now, Enjolras.

Grantaire nodded his assent to Jehan when the memories flooded back, and Jehan looked relieved.

Absently Grantaire looked down at himself, finally realizing he was naked, although it didn’t faze him as much as it probably should have as it wouldn’t be the first time he had woken naked without knowing why, but usually it was because he had had sex, and apparently, according to Jehan, that had not happened this time.

“Why am I naked?” He asked curiously. Still slightly dazed but feeling steadier by the minute. 

Jehan smiled tentatively, “You were getting hypothermic when we met you last night. We had to take you’re freezing clothes off and get you warm when you got here. And you bumped your head when you fell”.

“Oh.” Grantaire muttered. 

“Are you feeling ok?” Jehan asked again, leaning a little closer but not too close, as if he were afraid Grantaire was going to bite. Grantaire almost laughed, he was usually the one that got bitten.

Grantaire wiggled his fingers and toes, surprised to see them all still there. He felt the lump on the back of his head that throbbed but it wasn't too bad. His knees felt stiff, and when he looked down they were covered in gauze. Oh. 

“I think I’m ok.” 

Both he and Jehan jumped a foot when a low, sleep graveled voice behind then said, “That’s good.’’ 

Oh goody, Grantaire thought, turning around, it was Apollo himself. That part of the evening he most definitely remembered clearly. Gosh and Enjolras was a sight for sore eyes, his hair slightly tousled and his eyes half lidded. Even in Grantaire’s semi awake state he could appreciate how very pretty Enjolras really was. 

But inaccessibly pretty, like one of those dolls that was only ever kept in in their original packaging and was never allowed to be opened or touched. Or an avenging angel that would surely smite you before you even laid eyes upon them. .

The room fell silent and Grantaire cleared his throat uncomfortably looking back between Jehan and Enjolras, “So you guys do this often?” he asked hesitantly.

Enjolras frowned, the furrowed marks on his forehead doing nothing to decrease his attractiveness in the slightest, “Do what often?”

“Take home frozen whores.” Grantaire said, shrugging, unrepentant for his deliberate crudeness. He wasn’t just being crass for the sake of being crass, although that was always fun. No, Grantaire needed to know if they were hardcore religious missionaries, as quickly as possible so he could get out of there as quickly as possible before they mind whammed him into becoming their newest convert. Although he almost wanted to see them try because, for all his faults, Grantaire’s exceedingly cynical outlook on life made him pretty much impervious to most techniques of cult conversion. You’d be surprised how many religious nutters tried to convert prostitutes and Grantaire even had an inkling a gay prostitute was like their holy grail. Sometimes had to threaten them with physical harm before they backed off to harass the homeless people. It was worst when they scared off johns. Idiots, didn’t they realize Grantaire had to eat?

Enjolras frown became more puzzled, “No.” He answered succinctly, as if that was enough of an answer. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

Jehan sighed at Enjolras and turned back to Grantaire, “Well this isn't what we usually do but we couldn't in all good conscience leave you to freeze to death. And it would be highly hypocritical of us to preach about helping the needy and raising the minimum working wage and not actually do anything practical about it.”

Grantaire smiled lopsidedly, “Ah so you’re not going to preach to me about sins and morals. Or about getting “a real job”, one that doesn’t require me on my knees or with my face pressed into a mattress. One that won’t send me to hell?”

Jehan opened his mouth to speak before he was cut off by Enjolras, “We have no religious affiliation and we realize that the reason that many are homeless or become sex workers or both is because of the appallingly low working wages and poor work conditions. That’s not to say that all are, we don’t presume to speak for everybody but what we do want is for people to have a choice and not be forced into potentially dangerous situations. Like the one we encountered last night.”

Grantaire bristled at Enjolras’ tone, he felt patronized to the tenth degree, “I didn't ask anyone to help me. And I’m not some fucking charity case. So you can shove your attitude and your ideals. I do what I have to to get by.”

Jehan, shooting an exasperated look at Enjolras that clearly said ‘shut up and let me do the talking’ hurried to explain, “Please Grantaire, we’re not trying to make you change or do anything. We’re just happy that you’re ok and we want to help. Isn't that right Enjolras?” Jehan said pointedly looking over at the blond.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, nodding stiffly and Jehan smiled in relief, too early it seemed, as Enjolras started talking again, his voice icy, “But you wouldn't have been in that situation in the first place if you hadn't taken proper precautions. What you were wearing wouldn't have kept you warm on a 80 degree day and you were wearing it on one of the coldest nights of the year?”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras in shock; surely he wasn’t that naïve? “And you think I’m going to get customers when I’m dressed in a fucking puffer jacket and sweats huh? You and your little friend here can preach about understanding and non-judgment all you like but I bet neither of you have ever had to go a week without eating because your rents due. Or let a guy fuck you without a condom because your electricity is about to be shut off, or get on your knees and suck some dirty cop off because he’s holding a gun to your head and he likes how powerful it makes him feel. Or harassed daily for sex by your landlord because apparently whores like me will just give it up for anyone and for anything, So yeah, I’m going to wear something that makes me look like I’m ready to fuck because if I don’t, I die. That’s reality, that’s not the namby pamby bullshit you guys talk about at your little club or whatever, it’s the truth.”

Grantaire hadn't realized but he was yelling, he had stood, the blanket falling off his hips and onto the floor. Suddenly his naked body was under Enjolras’ scrutiny. Grantaire would have been flattered and a bit turned on (lets face it) if the eyes tracking his body weren’t filled with disgust rather then want, lingering on the bruises marring his body.

‘And those too? Those bruises are the price you pay to live?’ Enjolras said in a cool, controlled voice, his eyes never leaving the hand shaped bruises on Grantaire’s hips and on the insides of his thighs. 

Grantaire straightened his spine, and lifted his chin defiantly “Not to live Apollo, to survive.” He said, his voice quiet. 

Grantaire was suddenly exhausted and he’d had enough. Arguing with naive idealistic trust fund baby hipsters was apparently very tiring for someone recovering from hypothermia. He’d just have to conveniently forget those same trust fund babies were the ones that had saved him from said hypothermia to begin with. Maybe Grantaire just preferred a mode of life saving that didn’t come with a siding of self-righteous lecturing. 

Grantaire dropped his shoulders and swung around to find his clothes, unavoidably meeting the sympathetic eyes of Jehan. Grantaire felt his face immediately colouring at being looked at with such pity and compassion. Want and desire he could handle. Grantaire handled it everyday. But pity was the worst; pity made him feel ashamed and cheap and made him remember what he really was, a worthless whore.


	4. Breathe out

\- Enjolras

 

Enjolras’ mouth tightened at the sight of Grantaire’s thin chest heaving up and down, noticing for the first time the tremor in his hands; a reaction to the head trauma Enjolras wondered? Or something more sinister. Jehan’s warning about drugs was ringing in his ears and he grew angry with himself. This wasn’t what was supposed to go like this, what on earth happened to being patient and kind? 

Enjolras, in a brief moment of doubt, faintly wondered whether he may have blown it completely with Grantaire.

He just knew he should have just left the talking to Jehan. There was no need for intense, overbearing Enjolras today because A) that stuff didn’t fly with people who didn’t already know (and like) Enjolras and B) Grantaire didn’t care anyway. Apparently he had enough problems already. 

It was Jehan who broke the tension between Enjolras and Grantaire, his voice high, thin and shocked (Enjolras had the feeling Jehan was either still trying to process the horribleness that was Grantaire’s life or still shocked at Grantaire’s seemingly blasé attitude towards it. Or possibly both), “Please, Grantaire, you don’t have to go back. You can stay here. We can support you, we’ll get you a job and food any wha-”

Grantaire cut across Jehan before he could finish, his voice hard and flinty, that tough, wary guy from the night before back with a vengeance, “No. Thank you Jehan, you’ve been kind enough already. I’m just going to, Christ.” Grantaire paused, and for the first time in Enjolras’ company he looked consciously vulnerable; running a hand through his dark curly hair as he took a deep breath and continued, “I’m going to put some damn clothes on and I’m heading back to my apartment.”

Enjolras’ resolve stiffened at the first true sight of an exposed Grantaire. He couldn't let him leave, not like that, “Grantaire, you look like a human punching bag. We can help you, its what we do. Stay with us.”

He could almost physically feel Jehan’s wince at him from across the room and by the tightening of Grantaire’s back Enjolras realized he had said the wrong thing. Again. 

Usually Enjolras couldn't care less at how blunt he could be, but now, with a scared Grantaire in front of him, he suddenly wished he could be gentle like Jehan, or kind like Combeferre or heck he even wished for a bit of the Courfeyrac charm for situations like this. Anything to stop Grantaire from leaving. 

But all he could do was bluntness and hardness. 

Grantaire continued to throw clothes onto his thin frame, responding wearily, eyes downcast (the fight seemingly leaving him for the time being), “I’m not your charity case Enjolras. I’m not some stupid air headed twink that does this for a bit of blow money ok? You have no idea who I am and what I’ve done.”

Enjolras quickly and emphatically responded, “We don’t care. Stay with us.” 

However he immediately cringed at the tone of his own voice wishing to gobble the back into his mouth. He had meant the words like an innocent plea, but they had come out of his mouth like a command. Enjolras sounded like an arrogant prick (“It’s because you ARE an arrogant prick” he could imagine Courfeyrac saying in a cheery voice). 

Grantaire, now almost fully dressed with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, turned towards Enjolras (who consciously braced himself – Grantaire, he was learning, was like a mocking, cynical, bleaker, version of Enjolras himself; one who smoked). “And who’s going to stop me Apollo, huh. You? Gunna give me some new bruises to show off? Maybe you’ll get in a good left hook, giving a black eye to the skinny whore. But hey, never mind that, at least you did your one good deed for the day. Never mind that when you chuck that whore back onto the streets after you’ve ‘saved’ him he’s forgone three days of work and can’t pay his rent and he disappears off the streets because his landlords just not too keen on tenants that can’t pay up. But then your jobs done right? You can pat yourself on the back because there’s one less fille de joie on the streets you don’t have to feed soup to because he’s freezing his butt off.”

“I’m not going to fight you” Enjolras finally choked out after a long pause.

Grantaire smiled, his smile sad (or wistful?) as he drew on his cigarette, Enjolras noticing his flinch when he obviously stretched the bruises on his side, ”I never thought you were going to Enjolras, that wasn’t the point, so if you’ll excuse me now, I’ve got a friend to call to come pick me up from whenever in gods hell we are.”

Enjolras floundered, feeling helpless. He felt like he was missing something big, something important, and he hated it. The helpless feeling only increased as Enjolras watched silently whilst Grantaire laced up his boots and after a quick wave to Jehan and a muttered “thanks for saving my life”, he stumbled out of the door.

The only thing left of him was the lingering scent of smoke it the air.

Enjolras was glad the sofa was behind him when his legs gave out. He sat motionless for almost a minute before willing himself to speak into the silence, “I just fucked that up monumentally, didn't I?”

Jehan’ pale face grimaced slightly as sat down next to Enjolras, “A little, yes.”

Enjolras sighed, Grantaire’s voice still ringing in his head, “Dammit, he was our first real chance of changing something. Anything. And I ruined it.”

Jehan leant against him and nudged him with his bony little elbow, “That might have been the issue Enjolras. Sometimes you have to remember that people, even people who need our help. are still people, they aren’t just cases or a strike to put into our “hey we saved someone” column. They have their pride too. Sometimes it’s all they have left.”

“But did you hear Grantaire, Jehan? All those horrible things that happened to him. I don’t care what anyone says no one should have to be put through that.”

Jehan nodded sadly, his eyes on the door that Grantaire left their apartment through, “I agree. But to be honest I don’t think there was a lot we could say to make him let us help him. He seemed too goddamn stubborn, or proud. A little bit like someone else I know.” He said eyes on Enjolras, a sly elfish grin on his face. 

Enjolras scowled remembering the look of fear, shame, anger and, yes, stubbornness that clouded Grantaire’s features before he had left their apartment. And Enjolras felt the dread creep up on him as he once again replayed Grantaire’s words in his mind. Questions raced through his head; would Grantaire be going out there again tonight ‘working’, heedless of his injuries? Would his landlord really make him ‘disappear’ if he didn’t pay his rent? What if he had had a concussion like Joly had warned them about?

But the biggest and worst question of them all was, why the hell had Enjolras let Grantaire leave their apartment in the first place.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to take this oppurtunity to say a big thank you to everyone who's kudo'sed and commented so far:) You guys are the absolute best and its always so lovely to hear such great support and encouragement for this fic! Keep it up! (also apologies' for the shortness of the chapter - important things needed to be said and done and realised - and it didn't quite fit in with the chapter before or the next chapter coming - but have no fear, the next chapters a doozy to make up for this one!)


	5. Light a spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 KUDOS!!!! THAT IS SO AWESOME!!! THANK YOU ALL WHO KUDOS'ED, COMMENTED OR CLICKED ON MY STORY! YOU'RE ALL SO LOVELY!!
> 
> And as a reward for everyones kindness, heres an extra long chapter for you :)

\- Grantaire 

 

Grantaire’s hands were shaking when he lit his first cigarette for the night. His little passing out stunt the other night made sure he went three days without working which had meant three days without vodka. 

He had passed out the moment he had reached his mattress after the cab had dropped him back to his apartment. Apparently his ‘friends’ were either sleeping or too incapacitated to come pick him up. Anyway with the fare of the cab on top of not working, he had been without his regular supply of vodka and his body had reacted with the fucking shakes. 

In the back of his mind he knew that that was a bad sign, but he pushed it away, Grantaire had enough to worry about without adding alcoholism to the list. For example Montparnasse was on his back again about the late rent and Grantaire hadn't liked the look on his face when he had mentioned Grantaire paying him back in something a little different then cash. 

Grantaire shuddered and shook his head as blew out smoke into the freezing air. It was completely irrational but for some reason he hadn't wanted to give Montparnasse what he was looking for even, though it wasn't different then what he was currently doing. Rationally, fucking Montparnasse in lieu of paying his apartment rent was still whoring, just cutting out the middleman. 

But Grantaire wanted to believe he wasn't that far gone. It was funny, Grantaire had always prided himself on being the ultimate pragmatist, rational to the extreme and a handy apprentice to the devils advocate, but fucking Montparnasse for the rent would be akin to lowering the shitty level of his life by quite a few notches, notches Grantaire didn’t want lowered any further then they already were. 

Why not? The stupid voice in the back of his head sneered, don’t try and kid yourself grantaire, it’s got nothing to do with pride, you know this, it all about god fucking dammit Apollo. You wouldn't want him to think any less of you then he obviously already does.

Grantaire inwardly winced, he had almost forgotten about Enjolras and his stupid gorgeous mouth that said things like freedom, equality and fairness un-ironically; like they actually meant something. 

Thankfully, Grantaire’s depressive and confusing thought trail petered off when he was distracted by a newish black car that had slowed down in front of (his) lamppost and was idling next to the sidewalk. 

Ah, a john, Showtime.

Languidly Grantaire leaned against the pole, making sure that the line o between his low trousers and his tight sweater was showing a tantalizing strip of skin and the jut of his hipbones peeked out. He casually lit another cigarette drawing attention to his mouth, looking down at the darkened window through his eyelashes. Grantaire was an absolute pro at this (pardon the pun), as it was all part of the show; lure them in with a highlight of your best features and hope for a catch. 

The window came down. Jackpot. Grantaire’s john was well and truly caught. 

“How much?” Came a slightly hitched voice from the vehicle.

Grantaire eyed the car critically - black, well looked after, expensive model with all the trimmings. In his head he adjusted his prices accordingly. 

‘Depends on what you want, big boy?’ Grantaire almost smiled at the cheesiness of the line. He couldn't help himself sometimes; it was like being an actor in a bad movie, and the clients never cared, most of the time they liked it. Made it safer for them if it was familiar Grantaire reckoned. Plus no matter who they were or how insincere the statement; men liked getting complimented on the size of their dick (even if you technically hadn’t seen it yet). It was one of the first tricks Grantaire had learned as a hooker. 

“What do you do?” The voice said, a little steadier then last time, like he had finally made the decision to fuck a prostitute and was all the more confident for it. 

Grantaire flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, “I do hand, blow, fuck, all nighters but not in a fucking car, got it? Get a motel room or something.”

“How much for a blow?”

“$50.” It was usually a little higher but Grantaire desperately wanted to get out of the fucking cold. And the car was looking mighty warm right about now, maybe he could convince the john for an all-nighter as Grantaire’s shitty apartment’s heat was sketchy at best. It was so bad Grantaire was half convinced it was a childish ploy by Montparnasse to try and get Grantaire into bed with him.

“All night?”

Grantaire eyed the car with interest, yep, now they’re talking, “$300 with condom, $400 without.” Again he amended his prices, and his practice. He never did without condoms, not since the first time he got the clap. That had not been a pleasant experience. But Grantaire felt like his balls were literally about to freeze off and to be honest, he reasoned to himself, what kind of respectable car owner had the clap. 

Maybe one that hire whores, idiot.

“Jesus, with condom. Get in.” 

Grantaire grinned, the devils grin Eponine used to call it and he climbed into the car and got his first look at his john.

Surprisingly the john was young, as young as Grantaire. With curly dark hair and a baby face. Fuck, he wasn't half good looking, why the hell was this guy paying for sex?

“What can I call you?” Was always Grantaire’s first question. It allowed for intimacy without the john having to give personal information if he didn’t want to (a lot of the names he got were fake; some very obviously, like Aragorn, others more mundane, like Steve). 

“Cam”, came the reply, “What’s your name, gorgeous?” followed quickly after and Grantaire looked over in surprise as the car pulled away from the curb. Not many john’s asked for his name (or called him gorgeous), not that he ever gave “Grantaire” as the response anyway. That was another early trick you picked up on as a hooker, real names held power, power that you most definitely didn’t want a john to have over you. 

“You can call me ‘R””, came Grantaire’s reply. Short, sharp and with enough connection to his real name for him to never forget it. It also ensured that john’s knew who to ask for if they wanted a repeat performance. Grantaire had a few regulars that asked around for him on occasion which allowed just a tiny bit of good job security, if there was such thing as job security for prostitutes.

Cam, for all his charm, was looking a little nervous which made Grantaire smirk slightly; he liked his johns nervous. Nervous meant Cam probably wouldn't try to haggle out of the agreed price. Nervous meant Cam wouldn't make him choke on his dick. Nervous was usually safe.

“First time picking up a hooker?” Grantaire asked with a raised eyebrow. Apparently his raised eyebrow look was pure and utter sex. Grantaire had been assured on several different occasions. 

Cam blushed a little but laughed distractedly, his eyes flitting between the road ahead and Grantaire, “Is it that easy to tell?” he asked, his voice evening out. 

Grantaire grinned, and scratched the back of his head; hell, he already liked the guy, liking a john always made things a bit easier. Maybe, for the first time in a week, Grantaire wouldn’t think of a certain someone else (Enjolras, ahem) when he was fucking a client. That kind of shit messed with your brain. 

“Yeah, well you haven’t put a hand on my thigh yet, or tried to grope me the moment I got in the car. First timers are always polite.”

The guy peeked at him the look on his face indecipherable before quickly looking back at the road. 

Grantaire sighed and leaned into the heated leather seats, inwardly blessing the return of feeling to his numb feet. $300 would get Montparnasse off his back and a few packs of cigarettes; Grantaire could leave the vodka for a few more days, or at least until he started feeling sick or getting feverish. 

Grantaire watched the scenery go by and suddenly sickeningly realized they weren't heading to a motel, not any he knew of anyway and Grantaire (because of his profession) knew where almost all of the motels were this side of town. 

“We going to your place?” Grantaire asked, an eyebrow raised, trying to hide his panic with languor.

Cam looked over at him, his grin fading, “Yeah. Is that ok?”

Grantaire nodded slowly, looking at the fancy ass apartments and houses he saw dotting the side of the streets. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he should be allowed here, the last time he was somewhere anywhere remotely this nice he had chucked a hissy fit and stomped out of the apartment of the two guys that saved his life. 

Sometimes Grantaire was all class. 

Plus, now Grantaire was kind of pissed at himself, he knew he should have charged more. The guy was obviously loaded or at least a trust fund baby. In both cases it looked like ‘Cam’ had money to burn.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why a hooker?” Grantaire said quietly, he had to tread carefully; sometimes johns didn't like to be reminded they were technically paying for it. Grantaire’s first broken nose attested to this. 

Cam smiled a little, “Lets just say I’m not doing this for me.”

Grantaire stiffened slightly, alarm bells distantly ringing in his ears, his mind racing, “Costs more if there’s others.” He managed to get out neutrally, like his heart didn’t suddenly feel like it was going to pump out of his chest. Grantaire furiously fought the memories of the last time there were ‘others’. He liked to think he was more cautious these days, hopefully that held true for tonight, the guy had seemed legit enough but you never knew, sometimes the most normal were the kinkiest. Or the cruelest. 

The guy looked over at him and must have seen the look on Grantaire’s face as he hastened to reply, “No, not anyone else. Sorry that was stupidly vague of me. I uh meant, that uh, someone said I’d had a bit of a dry spell and maybe I needed to get laid.”

Grantaire relaxed slightly, but it still didn't explain why this guy needed to pay for it. 

Cam must have read his mind when he started speaking again, “I couldn’t be bothered going through all that bullshit to get someone to go home with you, you know?”

Grantaire laughed, “Dude, with a face like yours it wouldn't be hard in a gay bar. The rules are that if there’s literally 3 or more seconds of eye contact with a guy, you’re guaranteed a fuck.”

The guy looked away quickly, not quickly enough for Grantaire to miss the look of embarrassment on his face and finally everything finally clicked, all the clues added up. 

Grantaire looked at Cam in disbelief, “You’re not even gay are you?”

Cam stuttered his answer, but Grantaire had already seen the hesitation. Well that at least begged the question, what the hell was this guy doing with Grantaire?

Before he opened his mouth to say something, anything the guy beat him to it quickly, “Jesus, look. I wasn't even cruising tonight ok? I was literally driving home from a shitty date and I was feeling sorry for myself, and its not like I’m straight straight ok? I’m in college, I don’t even know what I am and then I saw you and…”

Ah, Grantaire suddenly caught on, he was a bi-curious college boy. Grantaire could more then deal with that. “And?” Grantaire urged him when Cam didn’t finish his thought.

The guy hesitated and then said in a rush, “And, well, I saw you out there and I thought who better to experiment with then someone who knows the score and will leave in the morning? And has anyone told you that you look hot as fuck standing against that fucking lamppost? Jesus I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone smoke a cigarette like you do. That shit should be illegal.”

The guy was still eyeing Grantaire’s hands and Grantaire fought not to do something stupid like pull open the guy’s zipper and give him a hand job right then and there in the middle of traffic. Because although Grantaire had the lowest self-esteem on the planet it never stopped him from enjoying the fuck out of a compliment, even if it was about his smoking skills/hands or non face related. Grantaire turned his head toward the window but couldn't help but smile Cam’s refreshing honesty. And he was totally hot in a preppy college kind of way, and maybe not so straight. 

That’s cool, Grantaire had never been someone’s first. Could be fun. 

“So you want to fuck me to find out if you might be gay or not?”

Cam’s breath hitched a bit at the word ‘fuck’ and nodded.

Grantaire leaned back in his seat and grinned, “Cool.”

“Cool?”

Grantaire smiled, “Yeah. It’s cool. I don’t mind being paid to be someone’s experiment. You just have to promise to try not blame me in the morning if you wake up feeling disgusted with yourself for doing it with a guy.” He finished soberly, his good mood dimming by the second.

Cam kept his eyes on the road but his body language screamed ‘confide in me’, “Does that happen often?” he asked, his voice losing its joviality and charm.

Grantaire closed his eyes against the night-lights, “It happens more often then you’d think. Logically it shouldn’t happen at all, right? I mean I’m a guy and they’re paying me to have sex with them right, thus they must be at least bisexual. But for some reason there are always the few that blame you for the fact that they can’t get it up for women. And I may be a sex worker Cam, but that doesn’t mean I’m someone’s whipping boy because they hate themselves for their sexuality.” 

Cam took a quick breath, “Maybe we shouldn't do this.” He said after a pause.

Grantaire’s stomach fell as eyes flew open, visions of finally having paying his rent on time flying out the window, “What? I’m not your type or something?”. He asked, half joking, hating that the thought that the fact that Cam may not want him had the power to hurt his feelings; because as cynical as Grantaire was, he had always been a sucker for a guy with integrity, and he didn’t exactly meet many in his line of work (most of the johns he slept with were cheating on their wives/girlfriends/boyfriends). 

“Jesus no of course you are. It’s not that, I just thought that maybe you weren't feeling up to it. that’s all.”

Self esteem somewhat restored; Grantaire took a moment to consider the guy next to him, Cam (as well as having integrity) seemed like a genuinely good guy; his charm seemingly a part of his personality rather then a practiced ploy to get people to like him (or get into bed with him). 

Grantaire laughed shakily “You didn't think I was “feeling up” to getting $300 to let some stranger fuck me? Fuck, no one ever feels up to it. You do because you have to, not because you enjoy it”. 

As soon as Grantaire said the words, he wished he could take them back; Johns (in his experience) didn't want to hear about his sad fucking life, they didn't pay him to converse with them. 

‘Is that why you do this?” The guy asked in what Grantaire had already dubbed his ‘therapy tone’ of voice. Grantaire decided to humor him; shit maybe Cam had a savior kink? Maybe he wanted to hear all about Grantaire’s shitty life and imagine for a night that he’s the one that’s going to save him. Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to do that and then dumped him on his ass. At least Grantaire had learnt from that. 

“Well it’s not for the fucking fun of it that’s’ for sure.” Grantaire said lowly and Cam was saved from replying to Grantaire’s pity party, pulling into the driveway of a nice looking townhouse.

Grantaire climbed out of the car and followed Cam up the steps and into the house. It was all very classy, all hard wood floors, skinny hallways and antique paintings on the wall that Grantaire couldn’t help but have a quick look at. 

He managed to tear himself away from a picture and followed Cam into the small but obviously expensive and well-stocked kitchen. “We have to be quiet, my roommate had a few guys over for a study night and I’m not sure whether they’re all still here or asleep on their books.”

Grantaire snorted, “That happen often?” he asked deliberately lightening his footsteps. Cam laughed, “More often then you would think. Their backs are going to kill them when they get older.”

“Want something to drink?” Cam asked, his head in the fridge. 

“You got a beer?”

“Yeah, Heineken ok?”

“Sure.”

Cam handed over the beer and took one for himself. He leaned against the counter and fiddled with the top as Grantaire waited patiently for him.

“So what happens next?” Cam finally asked, his eyes darting all over the kitchen, nervous again.

“Well we’ll drink these, you’ll show me to your bedroom. You fuck me or I give you a blow job or we do whatever you want and in the morning you pay me and drop me back at my street.” Grantaire reeled off quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. 

“That easy?” Cam asked, smiling.

“That easy.” Grantaire replied, grinning back. 

The door behind them creaked breaking the silence and making them both jump.

“What’s easy?” said a familiar sleepy voice behind them and Cam’s eyes widened in panic when he saw the person at the door.

Grantaire turned around and he felt his heart nearly give out when he saw the owner of that sleepy voice, “Holy shit, Jehan? What are you doing here?”

“Grantaire?” Jehan said in a whisper, eyes shocked as he slowly turned to Cam,“Courfeyrac, how on earth do you know Grantaire and why didn't you tell us you knew him?” Jehan continued in a confused voice, his bright pink overlarge t-shirt that read ‘Yep, Your Gaydar is Accurate’ lending the moment some nice irony.

 

 

 

 


	6. A bittersweet faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so fricking hard to write you guys - but I figure I should just chuck it up here before I give myself an aneurysm. So if you find something that needs an edit PLEASE TELL ME! :) that would be most appreciated.
> 
> Also you guys been brilliant as usual, my own personal cheerleaders that force me to chain myself to my laptop to get these chapters out. So thank you for all the brilliant, super motivating support!

\- Enjolras

 

In the half stage between being awake and sleep Enjolras registered that something sharp was poking into the corner of his eye. Then a muffled shout from downstairs made him jerk fully awake, almost gauging out his eye out on the sharp edged book he had apparently been sleeping on. 

Drowsily he picked it up and immediately recognized the cover. Enjolras contemplated absently in his sleepy state that losing an eye to John Rawl’s ‘A Theory of Justice’ wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world. Losing an eye, however, to the copy of ‘Atlas Shrugged’ that sat right right next to it? Well, lets just say the thought made Enjolras shudder and feel faintly nauseous. 

As he rubbed at his sore eye Enjolras strained his ears to hear register the shouting that woke him up, but the house was completely silent again. 

Enjolras carefully tested his eye (which seemed in working order) and squinted at the lamp that his study mates had inevitably left on. At the desk opposite him Combeferre was sprawled on his computer chair; feet up on the desk, his hands behind his head and a law theory book lying flat on his chest. 

Joly was curled up on the futon in the corner, still in his scrubs and Marius had fallen asleep on what looked like a bed of books. This was, however, all fairly normal behavior for his group of friends during finals week. The only one that was missing from their study group nap, Enjolras noted, was Jehan. 

He was sorely tempted to fall back asleep again as it had been a particularly unproductive study session, Enjolras finding himself unable to immerse in his studies like he usually could. The reason being that despite being a week since he saw him, Enjolras was still distracted by the ‘Grantaire issue’. His friends were equally stumped on what to do about the ‘Grantaire issue’. One thing they all agreed on though was that if they ever encountered Grantaire again, Enjolras was to say as little as possible. 

After a moment of silence Enjolras’ strained ears finally picked up on the faintly muffled voices from downstairs. Probably Courfeyrac back from his date, Enjolras surmised, but did the voices sound so angry?

Eventually the voices grew too loud for him to go back to sleep. So Enjolras admitted defeat, grumbled and got himself up, flattening his hair where it had gotten sleep mussed and padded down the hard wood stairs and long to the hall toward the voices. 

As he grew closer to the kitchen the voices got louder, and more distinct. And Enjolras, even is his sleep disheveled state, froze where he was just outside the door. The voice he could hear was angry. Very, very angry. But that’s not what surprised Enjolras the most. What surprised him the most was that that angry voice belonged to Jehan and Jehan rarely ever got angry, he’s unswervingly sweet temperament was the reason he was the only one who could stand living with Enjolras. 

But now Jehan was using he rare angry voice, usually only reserved for Tea Party politician and Vladimir Putin.

Something must be very wrong indeed.

What really got his attention, however when he heard his name specifically mentioned by Jehan, “You better hope to fuck Enjolras doesn't hear about this.”

After a short moment of indecision, hovering behind the door to the kitchen, Enjolras firmly pushed it open, “What on earth is hap….” - his voice trailing off when he saw the scene that greeted him.

Jehan was standing in the middle of the kitchen; hard faced, his eyes glittering with annoyance at Courfeyrac who, on top of being sort of Jehan-herded into the corner of the counter, looked mildly devastated as if he’ been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar when the cookies, were in fact for starving orphan children. His expressive face looking wide-eyed and guilty. 

And a shocked strangled sound tore out of him as Enjolras finally recognized the last member of the impromptu kitchen meeting; the dark curly hair, bright blue eyes and the too thin frame all telling him it was Grantaire. Enjolras desperately fought with himself not to stare, but inevitably lost. Because in all of is wildest dreams the thought that Grantaire would be standing in his friends kitchen that evening had never ever occurred to Enjolras. 

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, looking seemingly as shocked as Enjolras felt. Face pale (but not as pale as it had been when Grantaire had been recovering from hypothermia in his and Jehan’s apartment a week ago), his arms crossed defensively over his chest, a beer bottle hanging forgotten on the edge of his long pale fingertips. 

Grantaire’s nervously licked his along lips as he dropped his eyes from Enjolras, presumably to examine the floor. 

Startling out of his ridiculous staring contest, Enjolras slowly turned to Courfeyrac. The blood in his veins turning to ice as he fought to stay in control of his temper as he suddenly pieced together what was in fact happening here. Enjolras had been called many names in his time but stupid was never one of them; the combination of Jehan’s anger, Courfeyrac’s guilt and Grantaire’s bewilderment all evidence leading to one horrible conclusion.

“What the hell is going on here?” Enjolras asked quietly, even surprising himself with the venom in his own voice. Inside he was desperately hoping that Courfeyrac hadn’t in fact picked up a prostitute for sex but had rather scoured the streets looking for the guy that Enjolras and Jehan had let slip through their fingers. 

Courfeyrac blanched at his tone and what Enjolras had horribly suspected became confirmed in an instant. His glare solidified. Under it, Courfeyrac opened his mouth and shut it again several times before Jehan had had enough, “Courfeyrac decided to buy himself some sex when his date didn’t ‘put out’” Jehan spat out for Enjolras, his usually dancing happy eyes turned cold as he glared at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac, finally finding his tongue exclaimed, ”Fuck, I didn't know he was your Grantaire! You have to believe me! I just picked up a guy on a street!”.

Normally Enjolras would have contested the use of the possessive noun (because of what it implied about him and Grantaire) but he was too angry to even care. 

“What the hell Courfeyrac! That is so unbelievably missing the point right now!” Jehan answered for him, his eyes glittering with angry incredulity. 

But before Courfeyrac could respond Enjolras cut in, “Let me just get this crystal clear Courfeyrac. You think the issue here is that the person you picked up is Grantaire? Despite the fact that that the whole goal of Les Amis, of which you are a core member may I add, is about improving the lives of homeless and those who’ve turned to prostitution out of desperation. And you still think the issue is that it’s Grantaire?” 

Courfeyrac looked miserable, but Enjolras couldn’t find it in himself to care in that moment. He cared even less when Courfeyrac came out with, “That’s not fair Enjolras, I was going to pay him.”

At this, Jehan looked like he was going to explode with anger, and Enjolras quickly intervened, “What the actual fuck Courfeyrac. Are you drunk or high? Because that’s the only explanation I’ll accept for the stupidity of that sentence. This has got nothing to do with if you were going to pay him or not. Jesus Courfeyrac, we try to help people like Grantaire; we don't pay to sleep with them.” Enjolras said, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, before continuing, “This is pretty low Courfeyrac, even for you. You’ve violated almost every value we hold dear in the Les Amis.”

“God, I know Enjolras, I know ok? And I’m sorry.”

Enjolras saw the pleading in Courfeyrac’s eyes but turned away from him, his eyes landing on Grantaire who had been so quiet during the whole exchange Enjolras had forgotten he was there. Which was pretty ironic considering Grantaire had been part of the catalyst for the whole argument to begin with. 

Grantaire’s his eyes were wide and his mouth slightly agape as he glanced between Enjolras, Jehan and Courfeyrac, his face so different then usual sneer or cocky grin he had usually sported in Enjolras’ presence, “Uh, Enjolras, it was almost completely innocent, we didn’t even do anything right Courfeyrac? He was the perfect gentleman. Not even an in car grope.” Grantaire said, shooting a quirk of a smile at Courfeyrac who gave him a pained smile (grimace) back like they shared some sort of in-joke the rest of them weren’t privy to. 

And, for some reason, that irritated Enjolras even more; thankfully he was saved from commenting on it by Jehan who answered Grantaire, “It’s not about that Grantaire, I think the point Enjolras is trying to make is that our organization and advocacy group is run on a set of principals that are built around facilitating and helping the those that need help, without discrimination. And doing anything, in anyway to undermine those principals makes not only Courfeyrac but the whole organization appear hypocritical.” Jehan finished.

“But – “ Grantaire started to argue back but was cut off by Courfeyrac, “No, look, it’s cool Grantaire. I don’t even know what I was thinking. It was a complete brain snap. And I feel really shitty about it. I should never had even considered picking you up”.

Grantaire threw an indecipherable look at Enjolras and shrugged before placing his still full beer on the counter. “Um so can I leave now?”

Jehan and Courfeyrac both protested against it before Jehan gestured upstairs, shooting a quick look to Enjolras that said ‘remember what we said about talking or die’, and continued to on Grantaire, “Oh goodness it’s too late to go home now, but you can stay in the spare room, up the hall on the left if you like. It’s right next door to Courfeyrac’s room but I’m sure he won’t bother you.” Jehan finished, firing a glare at Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac looked hurt for an instant before rolling his eyes, “Jesus Jehan, what the fuck do you think I am? A freaking rapist?”

Jehan’s shoulders slumped, “No Courfeyrac, of course I don’t. But lets face it. You do do some awfully stupid shit sometimes.”

“I never meant to hurt anyone Jehan. Not Enjolras, not Les Amis, not Grantaire and never you. It was a stupid mistake is all.” 

Jehan nodded but didn’t look at Courfeyrac who appeared genuinely distressed at the thought that his actions would hurt his friends. 

Throughout the exchange, Enjolras had been eyeing Grantaire, who had started fidgeting and looked increasingly uncomfortable both by the conversation about him and under Enjolras’ scrutiny. 

Enjolras knew he should probably stop staring so much, he knew he was being weirdly intense again, but he couldn’t help it. The person he had basically been thinking, worrying and obsessing about non-stop for the past week was currently standing in front of him and he was afraid if he took his eyes off Grantaire for a second that he would disappear as quickly as he had appeared.

But Jehan had no such qualms, “Go to bed Grantaire, you look dead on your feet. We’ll talk tomorrow, ok? And we apologize on Courfeyrac’s behalf. We hope he didn't waste too much of your time?”

Grantaire looking relieved, nodded, “It isn't me he needs to apologize to, it's my landlord when he won’t get his rent this fortnight,” he said quietly with a tight smile before turning heal and heading out the kitchen door, his steps fading as he walked down the hall.

 

 


	7. Shine again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chap. 7 folks! Enjoy :)

\- Enjolras

 

The kitchen was dead silent after Grantaire left, the only sound coming from the dripping tap.

Enjolras let his shoulders drop, slightly but only slightly because the larger part of issue was still in the kitchen, drinking beer and looking furtive. 

Courfeyrac blew out a breath and drained his beer, “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “So, I think I might be bisexual,” he said, eyes still on the door that Grantaire had walked out of. A short moment of stunned silence met Courfeyrac’s proclamation before Jehan glared incredulously at him, “What the hell were you thinking Courf? Since when do you pay for sex?” He hissed. 

“It wasn't just sex Jehan. It was sex with a guy! You of all people should know how important that is.”

Enjolras fought the urge to roll his eyes and physically strangle Courfeyrac, “Not just a guy Courfeyrac, but a PTSD suffering, bruised, battered, malnourished, potential alcoholic. Surely you could have, I don’t know, gone to a gay bar if you wanted sex with a guy?” He gritted out 

Courfeyrac crossed his arms defensively over his chest. “It wasn’t like it was planned ok? I wasn’t even thinking about it until I saw him!”

“God you’re an idiot. Did what we do at Les Amis not even twig you to the idea that this may be a bad idea?” Jehan asked sarcastically. 

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to talk and then shut it again at the look on Enjolras’ face.

“And you were about to pay 300 bucks to a sex worker just so you could figure out your sexuality? Courfeyrac, he’s a textbook example of the inequity we try and fight against!”

Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably, “Well it sounds shitty when you say it like that.”

“It sounds shitty because it is shitty. Jesus, Courf, this goes against everything Les Amis believes. What on earth possessed you to pick up a prostitute?”

Courfeyrac looked away embarrassed, “The date didn’t go so well, and I was feeling pretty down about the whole thing. And then I just saw him, Grantaire that is, leaning against that damn lamppost and I thought to myself, why not? What harm could it do? I didn't think, at all. It was stupid spur of the moment decision. I said I’m sorry and I meant it.”

Enjolras let out a breath he was holding. He knew Courfeyrac wasn't malicious or cruel; he was just careless and didn't think through his ideas properly. Enjolras was just happy that Jehan had managed to intervene before things really got out of hand. He shuddered to think of what might have happened if Jehan hadn’t come into the kitchen when he did. 

“I get that Courfeyrac, I do. It’s just that Les Amis is Enjolras’ life; heck it’s all our lives. We put so much into that organization and it feels like you’re throwing everything back in our faces when you do things like this. All I can say is that we’re thankful for the twist of fate that’s brought Grantaire back. Aren’t we Enjolras?” Jehan said, looking at Enjolras. 

Enjolras, deliberately not answering the question threw a glare in Courfeyrac’s direction, “I’m going to look in on Grantaire to check he hasn't done a runner on us again.” And with that, he walked out the door.

Thoughts swirled through Enjolras’ mind as he quietly walked down the hall and lightly knocked on the door to the spare bedroom. When there was no reply Enjolras silently turned the knob and peeked in. 

The light from the hall silhouetted Grantaire’s form on the bed. His small frame curled into itself under the sheets, like he was either instinctively protecting his most vulnerable areas or he was used to conserving warmth. Enjolras sighed in general disgust at the world when he realized it was probably a bit of both.

Stepping further into the room Enjolras’ eyes were caught by the delicate curl of Grantaire’s dark hair on his temple. His sleeping face looking so young and vulnerable in the dim light; the shadowed dark circles and hollowed cheeks more prominent when his face wasn’t animated in amusement or suspicion. Enjolras followed Grantaire’s arms to the arch of his long pale fingers clutched at the sheets and Enjolras saw top of pale chest above the covers, the bruises from that first day still visible but fading. Grantaire’s green sweater lay in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the bed as if hastily flung. In a moment of stupidity Enjolras crept into the room, picking it up before folding it, noting that it was threadbare.

An echoing bang of a door shutting above him abruptly pulled Enjolras from his stupor and he flushed when he realized how long he had been standing there and staring at the sweater. Hastily he placed it on the daybed by the window, faintly shamed by his behavior. Grantaire didn’t need his sweater folded, he needed help and compassion Enjolras reminded himself. 

Quickly Enjolras stepped out of the room and shut the door a little more loudly then he intended to in his haste to get away from the room and his own traitorous thoughts.

As quickly as he launched himself away from the door Enjolras clumsily collided with Jehan, who steadied himself on the taller man’s shoulders, “Whoa, you ok Enjolras? Grantaire didn't do a runner did he? He was looking pretty skittish in the kitchen, can’t blame him really, you’re pretty scary when you want to be.”

Enjolras blinked and digested the words, his embarrassment fading, “Ah no, not exactly. He’s asleep.”

Jehan smiled knowingly, his face relaxing for the first time Enjolras had seen that night, “Good, he looked exhausted in the kitchen. I could just kill Courfeyrac for thinking this was ever a good idea.”

Enjolras scowled, “I second that, in fact I still haven’t made my mind up about not killing him. But at least Grantaire’s fine now, and back with us.”

“Yeah that’s something at least. Anyway, I’m completely bushed, that was way too much drama for me for one night. Maybe we can convince Grantaire to stay?” Jehan asked, eyes shining and voice hopeful.

Enjolras felt loath to crush Jehan’s hope but couldn’t find it in himself to lie, “Maybe, probably not. I don’t think he likes taking help. But at least we’ll get another chance to help, or do something. Even if it is just to give him somewhere safe and warm to sleep tonight.”

Jehan’s face fell, “That’s something at least. Got to take the little victories where we can I suppose. It can’t hurt to hope though, can it? That we can something more for him?”

“No it can’t,” Enjolras said flatly, not believing himself or Jehan for a second.

 

***

 

Enjolras slept horribly, tossing and turning the whole night before finally falling asleep just before dawn. So he was dismayed just a few hours later when he was gently shaken awake.

“What the hell Combeferre?” He muttered when he recognized the bespectacled face of his best friend peering down at him. 

“Sorry Enjolras but its past 9 and Jehan had to leave and he said that you should probably be awake before Grantaire gets up.”

Enjolras frowned, “Oh, so he told you then? About Grantaire and about Courfeyrac’s treachery?”

Combeferre fought a smile, “Yeah, he also warned me that you might be a tad melodramatic where those two are concerned.”

Enjolras scowled, “Who’s being melodramatic? Courfeyrac’s just managed to disregard every ideal the Les Amis stands for and all in one night too. Quite an achievement really.”

Combeferre nodded, as if taking his sarcasm seriously, “I get it, I do. And Courfeyrac is officially in disgrace and I mean officially. I mean as official as Jehan giving Courfeyrac the cold shoulder for almost all of breakfast. And When Jehan’s pissed at you know you’ve done little above killing puppies or drowning kittens.”

Enjolras, not the most intelligible being in the morning, grunted his response, staring moodily out the window.

Combeferre sighed, “I know this stuff with Courfeyrac and Grantaire has got you pissed and you deserve to be, hell we all deserve to be pissed. But please say you’ll forgive him eventually, I don’t think the group can survive two of its founding members not getting along.”

“I don’t know if I can Combeferre.” Enjolras managed through the morning wool in his brain. 

Combeferre nodded understandingly, “Yeah, I get it. But promise me you’ll at least think about it?” 

Rationally, Enjolras knew Combeferre was talking sense. And he usually prided himself on his ability to keep his head in crazy situations, but for some reason this time was different.

“I don’t know ‘Ferre. My mind’s completely rattled; I don’t even know how to describe how angry and disappointed, relieved and just plain frustrated I was when I saw Grantaire here with Courfeyrac last night. Usually I’m only like this with the things we fight for with Les Amis but with Grantaire thrown in everything’s become muddled completely that I can’t seem to separate it all, not anymore.”

Combeferre looked thoughtful for a moment, “That’s completely understandable Enji. Usually it’s mostly easy separating our personal lives from our cause. But it’s never that simple, you know that. Our cause wouldn’t be so important to us if we didn’t feel so strongly and passionate about it, if it didn’t make us emotional. And emotionality is good because it’s such a great motivator. So of course its always going to intersect and even someone like you can never be so far removed from both sides to look at a situation completely objectively.”

Enjolras nodded, he knew he wasn’t infallible but he’d always been better at masking his emotion something that wasn’t always healthy for him. Something he, Courfeyrac and Combeferre all knew that from experience.

“And I’ll only say one more thing. If Courfeyrac had brought home a nameless, unrecognizable sex worker would your reaction have been the same as last night? I mean I wasn’t there but it seemed like it had been pretty intense and dramatic.”

Enjolras looked at Combeferre in outrage “Of course my reaction would have been the same. It was never about the fact that it was Grantaire. It was about the principle.”

Combeferre, however, looked unconvinced, “I’m not trying to trap you Enjolras you know I wouldn’t do that and I get that Courfeyrac did wrong and you would have been upset anyway. But let me simplify things, tell me what you felt when you saw Grantaire there last night?”

Enjolras cast his mind back, “Disbelief, at first, I think. I mean we had kind of given up hope that we’d see him again after he left the first time.”

“Yeah, what else?”

Enjolras tried to identify the warm rush he had felt immediately after the disbelief when he finally convinced himself he wasn’t still asleep and dreaming, “Um, relief I think? Something stronger maybe. I just remember think that I was so glad he was here and that he wasn’t hurt. And then I felt the frustration and disappointment when I realized why he was here, but that was more directed at Courfeyrac then anyone else.”

“Exactly, so you probably would have felt anger, disappointment and frustration if it had been anyone else. But adding on to that the disbelief and relief and the shock of seeing Grantaire again, that’s going to complicate things and muddle things and heighten your reaction right?.”

“Ok, I get it, so you think I was too harsh on Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre frowned, “No. He definitely needed a good kick up the ass and I wish I’d been there to see it; a verbal Enjolras beat down is like poetry in motion. But what I’m trying to say is that its not expected for you to be impartial when it comes to Grantaire and you shouldn’t beat yourself up because of that. Things are always going to be complicated when personal feelings are involved but that’s not a reason to lose sight of our cause.”

“Personal feelings?”

“Yeah, I mean you care for Grantaire right? You care about what happens to him?”

“Well yeah, of course I do. It’s the whole reason for the cause.”

Combeferre nodded and pushed up his glasses, “But do you care for Grantaire specifically? As an individual whom you want to help and want the best for?”

Enjolras examined what he felt for Grantaire. It was hard for him to decide whether he cared for him or not, he didn’t have much experience caring for individuals. His friends? Of course he cared about them despite having trouble expressing his feelings most of the time. And humanity as a collective he cared for, it was the reason for his cause after all. But individuals, especially ones he’d met just twice and had spent the majority of his time arguing with, he wasn’t so sure. But would his reaction to Courfeyrac been so severe if it hadn’t been Grantaire? Was the reason for his heightened emotions because he cared for Grantaire?

Combeferre’s vice interrupted him thoughts, “I’m just saying that if Grantaire knew the reason you were helping him was because you cared about him as an individual rather then simply another exploited sex worker to tick off on our list, I think he would be more willing to listen to what you have to say. More valued. I mean just from what Jehan had told me of what Grantaire had said to you guys back at your apartment.”

Enjolras saw the logic in that except for, “Why does it have to be me? Why cant it be you, or Jehan, or even Courfeyrac seeing as they like each other so much.” He finished sourly.

Combeferre smothered a smile; “From what Jehan said I think it would mean more to Grantaire if it came from you. Trust me on this. Plus, I think we should look at the positive that’s come of this situation.”

Enjolras frowned, “What, that we get another crack at Grantaire?”

Combeferre nodded, “Well that too, but also that Courfeyrac’s announced he’s bisexual.”

‘How is that in any way helpful to anything at the moment?”

“Well it might not be helpful to you but its certainly helpful to the fulfillment of the bisexual agenda. ‘Filling our ranks’, as it were.”

“What, the agenda to end to bi-phobia, discrimination and a recognition of same sex couple rights?”

Combeferre grinned, “More like the agenda to murder all the heterosexuals and take over the world for ourselves. But that other stuff too.” He said laughing and ducking the pillow thrown by Enjolras.

 

 


	8. All four aces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg!! 150 Kudo's!!! I am officially over the moon, you guys are awesome for reading (and i hope you don't kill me for the end of this chapter....!)
> 
> Anyways, updates are probably going to be a tad slower from now on (this week and maybe next week) as I've got a billion assignments due very soon which need all my attention! But still check because I might change my mind and post something as I tend to stress write during intense assignment writing weeks. 
> 
> Enjoy :) xx

\- Grantaire

 

 

Grantaire shifted slightly, his mind clearing from the stupid dream he had been having that involved a haloed blonde figure that had come into his room and proceeded to do some very naughty things to him. If he didn't think too hard about how much that blonde figure looked like a certain revolutionary leader he knew, it would have been a very good dream. In fact, such a good dream that a certain area of his anatomy had become very excited.

Plus, Grantaire couldn't remember the last good sex dream he had had. Most of them were pretty horrific, so he took what he could get, even if it meant desperately trying not to picture Enjolras’ mouth on his cock. 

Whoa, down boy.

Wishing away the last of his stiffy Grantaire gingerly opened his eyes and quickly shut them against the sun streaming through the large bay windows that was definitely not a feature of his dingy apartments single room. Quickly he searched his memory of last night and came back up both relieved and shamed. At least he could remember this time. Saved a lot of unnecessary angst. Now Grantaire just had to deal with all the necessary angst. Fun. 

Grantaire was called from his thoughts by a knocking on the door, “Ah come in?” He said, his voice sleep husky and slightly unsure, not really knowing the etiquette for sleeping in a spare room in someone else’s house, did that mean it was his temporarily? Thus the knocking? Or did the person on the other side think Grantaire was pulling one off and didn’t want to walk in on it? 

Grantaire was both relieved and disappointed when it wasn’t Enjolras that came through the door. Instead standing in the doorway was a tall, slim but well built guy with sandy hair, freckles and glasses. He looked like an adorable overgrown scout and Grantaire liked him immediately, although probably more the apron the guy was currently wearing that said, ‘Is this a sausage on my grill? Or am I just happy to see you.’ 

Grantaire choked out a laugh and the guy blushed faintly and looked down at the apron forlornly, “Courfeyrac’s idea of a funny Secret Santa. Thing is though, I don’t actually have another apron, so its this or nothing when I cook.”

The guy looked up with an affably grin. “Anyway, Courfeyrac’s stupid and childish presents aside. Hi, Grantaire, I’m Combeferre. Enjolras and Jehan explained about the, uh, situation last night and I wanted to know if you wanted breakfast?”

Grantaire blinked. That wasn’t what he had been expecting; in fact he had been expecting to be kicked out. But then again he reminded himself, it was the Les Amis, any chance to save a worthless prostitute from themselves must be like a golden opportunity to ‘do some good’ for them.

Despite the sarcasm of his thoughts, Grantaire he couldn't help but look forward to some decent food, plus Combeferre didn’t betray a single note of irony or judgment in his tone, so he wouldn’t be unpleasant company. In fact Combeferre seemed genuinely happy to meet him and Grantaire was simultaneously baffled and grateful as his stomach was practically eating itself this morning, the only food he had consumed being a stick of gum and a packet of Doritos yesterday morning. 

“Ah sure? Thanks, I’ll be down in a few.”

Combeferre practically beamed at this, before adding, “And the bathroom’s upstairs if you wanted a shower or needed the loo. Here’s a towel”, Combeferre said, placing a fluffy mound on the bottom of the bed before and bustling out the door like a plucky mother hen. 

After Combeferre shut the door behind him, Grantaire groped around for his sweater on the floor but it wasn’t where he had left it the night before so he cast his eyes around the room and spotted it lying innocuously on the day chair, folded.

Grantaire certainly didn’t remember doing that last night; in fact he didn’t think he had ever folded a piece of clothing in his life. Which meant someone had been in his room after he had practically collapsed on the bed. The thought made Grantaire suddenly conscious of his pale naked chest and he felt nervous because for the first time in a while he was in a situation that he was not comfortable with. And some nice clothes would go very far in making everything a little less awkward.

But Grantaire shrugged, it wasn’t like anyone here would ever be interested in him plus he had nothing else to wear. Making up his mind, he quickly grabbed the towel and made his way up to the, thankfully, empty bathroom. The shower was like heaven, its water saving head doing nothing to detract from the blissfully warm and consistent water pressure. 

Not risking the shampoos and conditioner already in use in the shower, Grantaire washed his hair with soap, like he usually did, before shutting off the shower, drying himself and pulling on last night’s clothes. 

After he shoved his socked feet into his scruffy boots he made his way down the stairs and along the hall to where he could immediately smell the scent of bacon, eggs, sausages, toast and coffee coming from the kitchen.

Yeah, Grantaire’s nose practically twitched at the scent of real coffee beans. He definitely wanted some coffee.

As Grantaire padded into the kitchen he saw Combeferre pottering around the kitchen and spied Enjolras sitting at the counter, his blonde hair barely visible above the mornings paper.

“Grantaire! There you are, hope you had a nice shower. Here, I made you a plate.” Combeferre said smilingly, handing him a plate practically groaning under he sheer amount of food on it.

Grantaire’s eyes were big as he thanked Combeferre quietly and sat at the counter, noticing vaguely, as he shoved bacon in his mouth, that Enjolras had put the paper down, and was not so subtly looking at Grantaire over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Coffee?” Combeferre asked Grantaire, coming over with a new steaming mug in his hand.

“God, thanks,” Grantaire said gratefully, groaning in pleasure as the smell of the coffee hit his nose.

The kitchen quieted as Grantaire tucked into his meal and slurped on his coffee enjoying the momentary distaste flashing across Enjolras’ face at the noise.

“Where is everyone?” Grantaire asked, semi casually, after awhile, desperately trying to not let the silence slip into awkwardness.

“Jehan and Joly have class, Fueilly had work and Courfeyrac’s been banished to flyer duty.” Enjolras answered his eyes flicking over to Combeferre and then back to Grantaire, his expression unreadable.

“Flyer duty?”

“Yeah, we distribute flyers at the university to get people interested in the Les Amis. Although its not really punishment for Courfeyrac because he likes it too much. Plus we always get loads more people come to our meetings after he hands them out.” Combeferre answered leaning on the counter and chewing on a piece of toast.

‘’Combeferre and the others thought it’d be a bit easier or at least less awkward for you if he wasn't here.” Enjolras added in a tone that meant he deferred to their judgment on this kind of thing, his eyes falling and remaining on the plate in front of him.

Grantaire shrugged like he couldn't care less, but secretly he was happy he wouldn't have to deal with stupid fumbling apologies or the judgment from the others or at least not from Courfeyrac. Even though he liked him enough.

Eyeing Enjolras carefully, Combeferre started untying his apron, “Alright guys, I’ve got to head to the legal aid office. I’ll catch you later Grantaire, it was nice to finally meet after hearing so much about you.” 

Grantaire (inwardly freaking out about what might have been said about him apart from the obvious? He hoped they hadn’t told the others about the story with the policeman with the gun to Grantaire’s head - that was kind of a low point for Grantaire and he wished he had never mentioned it) smiled and shook Combeferre’s outstretched hand.

After Combeferre left silence fell over the kitchen.

For a few minutes the only sounds in the kitchen were of Grantaire finishing his breakfast whilst slyly stealing glances at Enjolras over his plate and Enjolras drinking his coffee quietly. It was a stalemate of sorts, no one willing to break the silence first. 

After Grantaire had eaten what felt like his whole body weight equivalent of bacon he leaned back in his chair and groaned, stretching his arms above his head, “Damn Combeferre can cook. I never thought food could be as good as sex but I think he just proved me wrong. Although by the poor quality of sex I’ve been getting lately that’s not really saying anything.”

Enjolras twitched spasmodically and Grantaire immediately wished he hadn’t tried to joke. Perhaps one didn’t talk about ones profession when one was a prostitute or perhaps one didn’t joke of one’s profession to someone who spent his life trying to make a world where the profession didn’t exist. Oh well, Grantaire thought merrily, Enjolras decided he should stay so he’d have to deal with whatever unsavory business came out of Grantaire’s mouth. Or in for that matter. Grantaire snickered noiselessly at himself. Wow he really was in a good mood he realized; maybe that’s what eating properly does to you? Grantaire marveled silently at how good coffee and a plateful of breakfast had boosted his usual surly disposition. His good mood having nothing whatsoever to do with the man he was infatuated with sitting just a few short feet away, touching distance even. Though Grantaire dared not to touch Enjolras or do anything to spoil the beautiful silent domestic moment of them being in each other’s presence with no arguing and not temper tantrums. It was bliss. 

Then, of course, Enjolras decided to clear his throat which, Grantaire knew, was always a precursor to an awkward speech and which meant he was going to spoil the lovely cozy moment between them. So Grantaire desperately tried to ignore him savoring his mood as long as it would last predicating that it would plummet the moment Enjolras said anything. Grantaire did this by slurping at his coffee avoiding Enjolras’ eyes and tried not to flinch at the sound of a very Enjolras-like sigh, somehow managing to be both patronizing and impatient, all in a sigh. 

Grantaire finally looked up and had to try to still the stupid butterflies in his stomach when his eyes met Enjolras’ fierce blue ones, finding the intense attention on him stupidly attractive, he felt like a blushing virgin talking to her crush for the first time. That was if the blushing virgin was a hardened sex worker whose virginity was lost years ago and the crush was an emotionally unavailable god like statue who believed in equality, fairness and justice for all, like a goddamn comic book hero.

Although, Grantaire surmised, the love of Enjolras’ attention was probably a throwback to his childhood of complete parental disregard. Great, now Grantaire was psychoanalyzing himself and, in doing so, positioning Enjolras as his substitute parent, because that’s not creepy at all. 

Breaking through his thoughts came Enjolras’ voice. 

“Grantaire. I think we need to talk.” 

So there it was, the 7 words that would possibly destroy everything.

 

 

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Please forgive me...


	9. Scaling the foothills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies, squeezed out another chapter for you in the midst of assignment madness! Just to let you all know this fic has an outline and an ending all sketched out (plus I'm a few chapters ahead in writing) so its not going to be abandoned. Ever. Even if I lose my computer or the wifi goes down or I lose my hardrive I'll still manage to finish it!
> 
> Also just a heads up, the warnings for this fic will change at about Chap 14 or 15, but I'll let you know closer to the chapter just to be safe. 
> 
> Also I'm loving the encouraging and complimentary comments (also ones that catch my errors - I call you my grammar/mistake angels!), you guys all are the best and saving me from slowly going insane as I sit in front of my computer writing all day everyday haha.

\- Grantaire

 

 

Continued…

 

 

Grantaire winced and looked up; secretly glad for an excuse to gaze on the beautifulness of Enjolras’ face, “Talk. Nope, no we don’t. No talking ever for us.” He said croakily, probably looking like a deranged psychopath as he babbled. 

“We can help you.” Enjolras’ face said irritation but his voice had more patience then Grantaire had ever given him credit for.

“We? You mean including that part of ‘we’ who was going to pay to fuck me last night?” Grantaire said just to be a smartass. It was always fun to remind his naïve, idealistic Apollo of the moral failings of mortals like Courfeyrac. “What does that say about your ideals? God, you guys really are like those politicians who call gay people abominations, but are secretly hiding a leather fetish and the need to be whipped by a 6ft ‘7 hairy bear with nipple piercings.” 

Enjolras blanched and flushed faintly. 

Objectively Grantaire knew he was being unfair, but he couldn’t help it, he lashed when he was in a situation he couldn’t control. Which was a pretty regular thing lately thanks to Enjolras and his merry group of world savers. 

“That’s not a fair comparison Grantaire, and you know it. Courfeyrac doesn't represent us as a whole and we’re not talking about him right now, or what he did. We’re talking about you. Please Grantaire, Give us the chance to help.”

Grantaire lost his smirk at that, trust Enjolras to pick up on his unoriginal attempts to derail the conversation. 

He contemplated the coffee in his cup, “Look, I thank you for the offer. I wish I could appreciate it more, but I won’t accept. And god I wish I could if just for the fact that you’re asking which I bet you guys were counting on.”

Grantaire peered up at Enjolras, whose face had turned stone, as he continued, “But one thing you have to understand about me Apollo is that I don’t deserve any help. Any crap that I’ve gone through has happened because of the choices that I have made and there are hundreds if not thousands of other people in just as desperate situations as me that deserve your help more then me. It was just my luck you guys were there that night when I passed out and that’s it? Right then and there you want to help me? Despite the fact that I chucked the offer back in your face. Despite the fact that I have a shitty roof over my head and you had already talked to dozens of people who didn't even have that luxury. So what makes me deserving. Is it coz I’m a guy and a prostitute? Is it because it make a pretty little newspaper headline for your group? Pretty good PR for you; saving a worthless sex worker and putting him on the straight and narrow would be a pretty big donation pull.”

“Jesus, no Grantaire. We wouldn't use you like that, you have bruises and -“

Grantaire smiled bitterly and shook his head, “Enjolras you can’t be that naive? My bruises are nothing compared to some of the shit other prostitutes or even the homeless go through. I thank god everyday that I don’t have a fucking pimp or a junkie husband who beats me regular if I don’t bring in money to fund his ice habit, or a teenager whose daddy decided that it was more fun to watch other people play with his little girl then just do it himself. What the fuck gives you the right to decide who gets help and who gets to rot in the gutter huh?”

Enjolras face whitened, “Its not comparable. That’s like saying a women shouldn’t get justice for domestic violence in this country because a few hits and bruises is nothing on what some women go through in Countries where they’re considered property of their husbands. Just because one is worse, that doesn’t discredit and give less gravitas to the other.”

It was a pretty speech but Grantaire wasn’t convinced. By Enjolras he was but not by the principle, “So that means the other guys on my block, Casey, Jim, Tom, Lu-Lu and Gem won’t get help? Because I’m the chosen one?” 

“No, we’ll help them too, if they’ll have us.”

“On one condition though right? They’ll have to give up hooking because that’s not on your little list for good moral behavior of the needy. They don’t deserve you’re help because they’re too busy trying to make ends meet using whatever means they can.”

“That is both unfair and untrue. Grantaire you act as if we have no idea about the people we’re trying to help, but we do. Why do you think we’re out there every weekend talking to the homeless and giving out blankets and soup? Sure we’re there to help but we’re also there to find the reasons why people have lost their homes, are turning to prostitution or are perpetually homeless. Finding out the reasons why gives us the information to help solve or at least help with the problems but also fight for preventative measures.”

Grantaire scoffed, “And what do your little investigations say about us, huh?”

Enjolras paused in indecision, as if not wanting to answer the question before catching the mocking expression on Grantaire’s face and hardening his features, answering mechanically, “Drugs. The number one issue that contributes to homelessness and street prostitution is untreated mental illness, self medicated with abuse of alcohol and drugs as well as one of the lowest minimum wage rates in the first world. That coupled with a background of dysfunctional family lives and childhoods in which physical, mental and sexual abuse is common. As well as a cycle of drug and alcohol dependency and abuse that spans over several decades and several generations. Most likely contributed to by a severely under financed welfare system and under staffed child protective services.”

Grantaire felt like he had been punched. Hearing Enjolras recite, in such a clinical manner, the story of his pathetic little life, shamed him. It also made him angry. It didn’t mean a thing. It didn’t make it all better did it? It just meant they again had the upper hand. As if life hadn’t privileged them enough already here they are reciting Grantaire’s life like he was just another depressed, alcoholic whore on the factory line of other depressed alcoholic whores. 

“So you think you’ve got me all figured out? What am I supposed to do now, fall at your feet in gratitude for a chance to be better, to become just like you. Or at least halfway there until you eventually grow bored with me because apparently alcoholism is a pretty hard habit to break and you can’t fuck me when my heads over the toilet bowl and I’m vomiting up the lining of my stomach because of withdrawal. So eventually you’re not getting what you want you don’t have to patience to wait anymore and excitement of catching and hooking a real life whore dies down. Then what happens? Well I’ll tell you Enjolras, after you’ve dumped him, good old halfway clean and converted Grantaire goes out and fills his body with as much alcohol and drugs as possible before waking up three days later, 2 towns over, in the bed of someone he can’t even remember meeting. And you know what the kicker is, Enjolras? The guy doesn’t even pay. When I don’t put out for him in the morning he kicks me to the curb in nothing the clothes on my back and I’m forced to thumb a lift and blow job my way home whilst the self loathing and shame is so intense I literally almost pass out again. So, I don’t care how much you and your friends say you ‘care’, I’m not ever going to risk that happening again. Not even for you.”  
Grantaire is shaking by the time he’s finished, the coffee forgotten and now cold and congealed in the mug. It was an apt metaphor.

There’s a momentary pause, Grantaire was not brave enough to look up and see Enjolras face, his self righteous indignation fuelled adrenaline rush leaving him and quickly as it came and now he has just embarrassed and worried. Was Enjolras angry? Was he disgusted with Grantaire? Did he pity him?

It surprised him when Enjolras replies, his voice quiet and gentle with a hint of pleading, “I wont argue with you Grantaire. I will only say this, what happened to you was and is horrible, and we, the Les Amis, are in no way like that person that did that to you. We are committed and we care. But we will never force or coerce you to take our help, not ever. You come to us of your free will or not at all, OK? I mean what kind of social justice action group would we be if we started playing the role of the oppressor every time things didn’t go our way.”

Enjolras took a bracing breath and continued in that same gentle voice that did all sorts of funny things to Grantaire’s insides, “Now come on, if you want I can take you home?”

Grantaire, surprised at the kind words and offer, could only nod. His voice too choked up to reply properly. He got what he wanted, but it was a hollow victory, mostly because Grantaire didn't think he had won at all. It’s no fun to bare your soul and constantly have to defend yourself, its even worse if you have to do it against someone so inanely and inhumanely good, who ends up saying something that makes you wish with all your heart that you could trust him. That things might be different this time, that he might be different.

 

*******

 

The car ride home was silent, Enjolras constantly looking seconds away from speaking and Grantaire sending him wary looks, slightly frightened at what he might say. 

The stillness was only shattered by they’re hands bumping awkwardly when they both went to turn the radio on; Grantaire’s feeling his ears going red when Enjolras snatched his hand back from his, like he had been burnt. Safe to say the radio stayed off and it was a long, awkward drive.

Enjolras kept his mouth shut until he turned into Grantaire’s street and then looked adorably confused for a second, “I don't know where you live exactly, if you could give dire-“

‘Nah here’s fine.” Grantaire quickly cut across, “My apartments really close.” Because like hell he was going to show Enjolras exactly where he lived, not that he thought Enjolras would come knocking at his door, not after the conversation they just had, but more because Grantaire had had enough to be ashamed about without Enjolras knowing what a shithole his ‘apartment’ really was. 

“Look, before you go. I just wanted to give you my number. If you change your mind about the help that is.” Enjolras said quickly as if he had been holding the words in til last minute.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras in disbelief, what? “Your number?”’

“And call it. If you ever need anything, if you need money or find yourself in a bad situation or if you just want to chat, call me. Please, this is the one thing I will ask of you.”

“I’m to call you if I just want to chat?” Grantaire said incredulously, “Not to be rude or anything but are you sure you don’t want to give me Jehan or Courfeyrac’s number for that?”

Seeing the hurt looked quickly flashing over Enjolras’ face Grantaire hastened to add, “Not that I wouldn’t want to talk to you, its just that you don’t seem much like the chatterer type is all.”

Enjolras looked down at the steering wheel in his hands and said quietly but firmly, “If it meant talking to you. I would try.”

Grantaire was lost for words. What kind of game was Enjolras playing? Was it just another ploy for Grantaire to accept his help, because that was low, even for Enjolras and his never daunting quest to ‘help’ Grantaire. 

“And another thing. Here’s your three hundred bucks.” Enjolras said, pulling out a blank envelope from his jacket and handing it over. 

Looking at the money, Grantaire immediately refused, “Dude, I didn't earn this. This money is not mine.”

“Did you or did you not just stay over night at the house of a client?” Enjolras said in a jerky voice, continuing on after Grantaire nodded, “Ergo the parameters of the verbal contract you and Courfeyrac decided on last night were, in fact, met. There was nothing there that stipulated sex was to be involved. It was, per your agreement, an “all nighter” rather then any clear verbal limitations on what that exactly meant,” he finished, a smug look on his face.

Whoa, Grantaire had to admit, it was kind of hot seeing Enjolras act all lawyerly, not that he wasn’t hot usually, but lawyer talk just notched up his attractive level even further. 

Plus Enjolras was sort of right Grantaire supposed to himself, admitting defeat and shoving the envelope in his pocket. He felt strangely gratified to see Enjolras’ shoulders relaxing after the completed transaction.

“Now you can pay your rent on time”. Enjolras said seriously as Grantaire stepped out of the car. 

Grantaire whirled his head around and suddenly had trouble swallowing for a moment. He hadn't thought anyone had paid attention to the throwaway comment he had made about his rent last night before going to bed. Is that why Enjolras had been so pushy about the money? Because he knew without it, Grantaire couldn't pay his rent? Weird that he would care so much. Although if it wasn’t practically Enjolras’ job to care about misfits like him, Grantaire would be getting ideas. Dangerous, stupid, hopeful ideas that did nobody any good out in the real world, one that Enjolras was trying to save and Grantaire was trying to fuck. 

“Uh thanks. Again.”

“No problem. If you like, you are welcome to come to our meetings at the Corinth. You know, instead of blatantly staring at us from across the coffee shop of which I am informed by Jehan that you did.”

Grantaire almost choked on a laugh, “Jesus, Did you just you just make a joke Apollo? You’ll have to warn me next time so I don’t die from surprise.”  


Enjolras flushed for the second time in Grantaire’s company and Grantaire tried not to like it as much as he did.

“If you come to the meetings you’ll realize I do that too sometimes.” Enjolras said, defensively, before jerking Grantaire’s door closed and pulling onto the street. His car leaving Grantaire standing on the sidewalk feeling an unidentifiable emotion, somewhere between amused, surprised and just a little bit horny.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who's POV are we liking the best? Grantaire's or Enjolras'? - Also would people be interested in both POV's of in one scene? (Not altogether, but like a separate POV written account of the one scene?) - let me know what you think!


	10. Face to the heavens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Great comments on POV! I loved reading them and helped me clear up some stuff for the rest of this fic :)
> 
> I've just updated the tags as well to include a warning about suicidal thoughts/behaviour for this chapter, it's mostly in a relatively flippant nature for this POV (Grantaire) but be careful/safe when reading or skip altogether just in case it's a sensitive topic for you! 
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

\- Grantaire

 

 

Grantaire flung the newspaper back onto the paper rack, than picked it back up to once again obsessively study the small picture on the front of a very recognizable unforgettable face. 

Enjolras’ hard, flinty stare met his from the front page, his face just as beautiful in gray scale then in full color. Although what really got Grantaire’s attention was the heading, “Is this the new Mother Theresa of our homeless?” It felt like some sick sort of cosmic joke that Enjolras would be in the paper just a few short weeks after Grantaire had taunted him about being PR for him and the Les Amis. 

He read the article again - 

_Could this attractive Ivy League law student be the savior this city has been waiting for? Touted as the next voice of the voiceless, Enjolras is a 23-year-old, straight A law student, avid advocate for the homeless, needy and founder of social justice non-government charity organization the Les Amis. Gaining publicity recently for their good works, the Les Amis has been tirelessly supporting and helping this cities worse off through ongoing charity works, legal aid, education for the poor, supporting and sponsoring the needy through drug and alcohol rehab programs and helping the homeless gain immediate healthcare. A life long advocate for the poor, Enjolras surprisingly, hails from one of the countries richest family dynasties but has been quoted as saying, “…My values are vastly different from those purported by my family. I do not, nor will I ever represent my family. We are estranged...”_

__

__

Grantaire stopped reading greedily and folded the newspaper under his arm figuring he could spare the extra few bucks on top of his cigarettes. The article told him nothing more then he already knew about Enjolras, but somehow seeing it in print made it hit him all over again and he felt pathetic, the hope that Enjolras might even care for him just a little, shriveling up like an onion in the sun. It was better that way though, better to be realistic. 

So, Grantaire liked to think that his studious avoidance of the Corinth café since Enjolras’ offer was more coincidence then his unconscious way of dealing with his unwise little crush. A crush that didn’t seem to be abating with Enjolras’ absence, rather fueling his elaborate fantasies of what it might actually be like to be with Enjolras. He both hated and loved them because that’s what they were and that’s what they’ll ever be. Fantasies that could never come to fruition. Stupid cliqued high school illusions of the smart, popular, beautiful, passionate student body president choosing to be with the ratty, skinny, ugly kid from the projects; who no one talked to because he was poor. It would, of course, include a makeover sequence where maybe the skinny kid became ‘worthy’ of the popular guy and then they’d sail off into the distance together, perhaps by way of flying car? Perhaps that was too much fantasy, not every cliqued high school movie could be as perfect as Grease, after-all. 

But really he was just being the big ol’ coward. Unable to face the knowing looks of the Les Amis, who never sold their ass for cash but knew he did. 

Oh god even the lure of seeing Enjolras in all his golden passionate glory in tiny newsprint couldn’t get him there. Grantaire was now forced to go to the tiny little café on the corner of his street, whose coffee was surprisingly good but was constantly swamped with Christmas shoppers from the nearby mall. 

So instead of relaxing at his regular seat at the Corinth, watching the Les Amis planning to take over the world and indulging in long stupid domestic fantasies of him and Enjolras making out in locker rooms or going to prom together, Grantaire was forced to repeat his coffee order to the young, pimpled cashier who Grantaire highly suspected of being homophobic (the guy always gave him dirty looks, like he could smell the gay on Grantaire) and getting squashed into the drinks fridge by the increasing numbers of businessmen and crazy Christmas shoppers carrying enough bags to make them topple over. 

Then, as if that wasn’t horrible enough, he was forced to drink it outside on the freezing streets, the only warmth coming from the steaming paper cup in his hands. 

So, yeah, he was a big old coward for going through all that just so he didn’t have to see Enjolras. Or his little group. 

However, as luck would have it, or bad luck in his case, his life saving fortnightly cigarette (and now newspaper) run took him close enough to within a shop or two of the aforementioned coffee house. It was the middle of the day so really he should have been safe, Enjolras and his merry troop of world saviors should have been holed up in lecture halls, tutorial rooms or hidden between mountains of books in the library or sleeping in. Doing all the normal collegey things. 

Except Grantaire, in his senselessness, had completely forgotten it was winter break, which meant the Les Amis would be a group of relieved and exhausted students let loose on the world after weeks of stressful finals. 

Something Grantaire really should have known seeing as he used to be one of those relieved and exhausted students, for a little while at least, before he screwed it up. He consciously dashed those thoughts from his mind; going down that road would leave him depressed and looking down the barrel of 2 empty vodka bottles wondering where it all went wrong. Actually, he’d be once again wondering how he managed to fuck up his life the moment it had gotten slightly on track. 

Grantaire’s hands shook (this time with cold – he promised) as he brought his lighter to light the end of his cigarette when something red, tall, thin, and bespectacled ran into him, making his hands jerk and almost lighting his eyebrows on fire.

“Fuck, what the he-” Grantaire said, pocketing his lighter so it didn’t cause anymore fatal eyebrow-related accidents and straightening up from being shouldered right on a bruise by the tall guy, who now was profusely apologizing, “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, so clumsy of m-, Grantaire?”

Grantaire’s head whipped up from examining his shoulder for a possible dislocation, at the familiar voice. It was Combeferre, standing in front of him, his face split into a wide grin. 

Next to him, with a more strained smile, was Courfeyrac. His cute features looking pale and drawn, giving a small wave from the hand currently holding down what looked like a mountain of shopping bags. With the circles under his eyes, he looked the way Grantaire felt; which was like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

Grantaire eyed them, they both looked rugged up to the nines, expensive coats and woolen mittens making the air around Grantaire seem colder then it was. Grantaire felt instantly self-conscious in his threadbare jeans, scuffed boots and holy black sweater. He wasn’t even wearing his hooker clothes, so instead of looking like a fairly well put together whore (which was preferable), he now looked like a not very put together homeless person. Except these two knew exactly what he was and what he did, Courfeyrac had almost known it intimately. 

Usually Grantaire could walk these streets anonymously, without anyone knowing what he did (or who he did and why). And his ‘profession’ was the reason he kept people at arms length as there was a certain vulnerability in having acquaintances that weren’t in the ‘business’ (i.e. Selling your body for money). 

It was the reason he had cut off all contact with Eponine after she had gotten a ‘real job’ and quit sex work. In Grantaire’s opinion there was nothing worse then ‘normal’ people knowing exactly what you did and thinking less of you for it. The audacity of ‘normal’ people made him shake his head sometimes, what would they prefer, his morality and no roof over his head? Freezing his limbs off every night just so he was respectable? Or maybe they’ll be like the politicians themselves and tell him to get a ‘real’ job, when real jobs for someone without qualifications were so scarce they were like the holy grail, and then, if you managed to get one of these ‘jobs’ (dishwasher, waiting tables, customer service) the pay was so poor that Grantaire or anyone else wouldn’t be able to afford his (or any) apartment and have to live on the streets which meant he would lose his ‘real’ job and all for what? So he could be respectable, moral; pass muster with people who would sneer at him for being gay anyway? Yeah, no, Grantaire would choose survival each and everyday over the ‘respect’ of those privileged, hypocritical, supposedly ‘honorable’ people. 

Grantaire was drawn out of his mind preaching by Combeferre’s cheery greeting.  
“Hey guys.” Grantaire said back, only slightly awkwardly. Because lets face it, what exactly was he supposed to say to a guy (Courfeyrac) who had been just about to pay him to have sex with him a few short weeks ago or to a guy (Combeferre) who had made him the biggest pity breakfast he had ever eaten in his life after not having sex with one of his friends, a few short weeks ago. Not to mention the fact that Grantaire may or may not be in love with their best friend. A little awkwardness could be excused. 

He cleared his throat as they looked expectantly at him (what was he, a freaking stripper?), casting around furiously for something to else to say. His eyes landed on their shopping bags, “Been shopping?”

Ah yes, shopping. Nice and safe topic of conversation, nothing to controversial about shopping. Nothing they can link to the fact that he slept with men for money. 

God being a prostitute made you paranoid. 

“Yeah, we always leave it to last minute, especially for Enjolras who’s possibly the hardest person in existence to buy a Christmas present for.” Courfeyrac said, rolling his eyes.

Grantaire, smiled, relighting his cigarette and puffing on it, thankful for something to do with his hands, so he wouldn’t try and strangle them for information about Enjolras. Although he almost immediately wished he hadn’t even touched the cigarette as Courfeyrac’s eyes subtly lingered on Grantaire’s hands and mouth after every draw. Courfeyrac probably wasn’t even aware of what he was doing; the only reason Grantaire picked up on it was that it was kind of his job to.

“Surely Enjolras doesn’t believe in Christmas, it being an exclusive denominational holiday partly created by big business in order to sell us stuff we don’t need under the guise of being an important spiritual date?”

Combeferre stared at Grantaire for a moment before bursting into laughter, Courfeyrac not far behind him and Grantaire let slip an embarrassed grin. 

Hell, it hadn’t been that funny had it? And for a moment there he thought he had gone too far and had been too mean. Enjolras was their best friend after all. But apparently they liked to poke fun at their super serious angel friend. Dammit, he hadn’t wanted to like them anyone then he did, but was finding it impossible. For stuck up rich kids playing at charity, they were surprisingly easy going, funny and likeable. Although, Grantaire was beginning to suspect that these very qualities were the reason that they managed to stay such good friends with Enjolras in the first place. 

Combeferre wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, his laughter dimming to chuckles, “I don’t think Enjolras himself could have said it any better Grantaire. But as much as he doesn’t believe in Christmas, we still have it with him every year and he always comes, if only to complain about how many Christmas traditions and symbols were stolen from the solstice celebration of the pagans. Enjolras always has a good time when he gets to lecture someone about capitalism ruining the world, so everybody wins.”

“So you guys all do Christmas together then?” Grantaire asked curiously, the thought of them all in dorky Christmas sweaters and reindeer antlers making him smile. 

Courfeyrac smiled back and answered, “Yeah, Combeferre’s parents live in Paris and my mum died a few years ago. So we sort of started the tradition, and Enjolras won’t spend his Christmas with his enormously wealthy family anymore, despite them throwing a big bash every year. So he comes to ours. Joly comes when he’s not on shift, as he can never go home on holidays because of his work schedule. Feuilly comes every year, he doesn’t have parents to go to and the others are usually, Bahorel, Bossuet and a few others. And it’s Marius’ first Christmas away from home this year so we’re trying to make it a big celebration for him. We call it the misfit Christmas!”

Grantaire felt a pang go through him and he suddenly wished he had never asked them about their plans. He couldn’t remember the last Christmas he hadn’t spent alone with a bottle of vodka and a tub of ice cream watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” and contemplating whether George Bailey had the right idea all along about killing himself and maybe that pesky angel should have minded his own business. Or comparably he wondered what it must be like to live in a charmed world where you could be safe in your financially supported idealism and a comfy bed. 

After a quick worried glance at Combeferre, Courfeyrac continued managing to sound both hesitant and eager at the same time, “Hey, maybe you should come this year, Grantaire? It’s only in a couple of days and it’s all pretty low key but Combeferre’s cooking so that’s always a plus, especially if it means I don’t have to cook! I can guarantee you definitely won’t get food poisoning!”

“Nice sell.” Grantaire smirked, trying desperately to hide the longing off his face, because, despite his all his self-conscious neurosis, Grantaire kind of really wanted to accept the invitation. Have a normal Christmas for once and not contemplate adding to the suicide statistics of that time of year.

“You’ll be totally welcome! It wouldn’t be awkward or weird or anything. Hell, we became friends with Feuilly after we helped him when he was in a similar situation as you, not exactly the same but he was living pretty rough.”

Grantaire blinked and his head span for a moment. 

What? Who the hell was this Feuilly. Is that what the Les Amis did? Did they just collect losers like Grantaire and remake them into versions of themselves? Was Feuilly now studying law and handing out soup on the weekends to the people he used to sleep next to? Did they handpick the young males most likely to be converted and hound them until they gave in. Mass-producing them like Stepford wives? Creating little army of Enjolras converts hell bent on ending injustice. Like scientology but probably a little bit less insane. Grantaire couldn’t picture Enjolras believing in anything he couldn’t see with his own two eyes. Despite all this Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a teensy bit jealous. That Feuilly got to accept what he couldn’t. That Feuilly got to spend Christmas with Enjolras and the Les Amis, as an equal, as a friend.

Grantaire wasn’t in his head for long, his attention snapping back to the two in front of him when he realized they were have some sort of wordless argument using a series of non-verbal gestures, nod’s, shrugs and glares; probably perfected and refined after years of being best friends. Consisting of plenty of eye rolling (on behalf of Courfeyrac) some head shakes and motioning to the bags in his hands (Combeferre) and then finally a warning glance in Grantaire’s direction and a warning glance back to Courfeyrac (who rolled his eyes again and beamed back, as if to say, this is a great idea, trust me), Combeferre looked unconvinced. 

Grantaire’s cigarette hand froze halfway to his mouth when his mind suddenly clicked on what they were arguing about (he was a whore, didn’t mean he was stupid). Gradually he pieced it together, so, Courfeyrac apparently shouldn’t have invited him (head shakes) because Enjolras (bag motioning, the presents were for Enjolras after-all) didn’t want Grantaire to come? (Warning glance). And then Courfeyrac’s eyes rolling and his grin, as if to say ‘I don’t care, I do what I want’. 

Admittedly Grantaire wasn’t the best a reading body language that wasn’t a precursor to sex, but he knew a brush off coming when he saw one. And Combeferre was definitely going for the brush off, Grantaire could practically feel it coming. 

So Grantaire, being the good guy that he was, braced himself and decided to be preemptive, before they all got embarrassed because Courfeyrac thought it was a good idea to invite a whore to their wholesome (whore-less), safe, clean Christmas dinner. 

But then bullshit it was the Christmas for ‘misfits’, the two in front of him had probably never felt excluded in their entire cookie cutter life. And the rest were no better, there was nothing that said ‘misfits’ about them. They were rich, they were being highly educated and they were white. So was Grantaire, but he was trailer-trash white, a different breed to their Ivy League baseball/golf playing pristine white. 

“Uh thanks for the invitation Courfeyrac, um but I have, uh, other plans.”

Vodka and ice cream related plans.

Courfeyrac looked mildly crestfallen before shooting an apologetic look in Combeferre’s direction, “Our plans involve alcohol?” he said beseechingly, ignoring the warning mutter of “Courfeyrac” from beside him.

Grantaire smiled sadly, “So does mine, Courfeyrac.” He said, dropping his cigarette to the sidewalk and grounding it with the heel of his boot, “Maybe I’ll see you guys around? Or maybe not. Unless one of you gets lonely on a Saturday night, at least you’ll know where to find me right? I mean if I’m not good enough for your Christmas dinner, at least I’ll be good enough for a fuck, right Courfeyrac? It’s ok though, really. I mean if I were you I wouldn’t want me there either.” Grantaire said quietly, vaguely registering the look of shock and confusion on both Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s faces before turning on his heel and trudging back up the street, hands jammed in his pockets, studiously ignoring the pleading calls of his name from behind him. 

 

 

Tbc.


	11. Pride comes before the fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! well assignments are all over, thank goodness! And heres an extraaaaa long angsty chapter to celebrate, but we're on the home stretch so theres plenty of angst (but then lots of fluff) to come :) :)
> 
>  
> 
> ***Also I've tagged "mentions of rape/non con (non-explicit)" for this chapter (there are several mentions) so be safe and careful! xx

\- Grantaire

 

 

Grantaire flung himself on his mattress when he got back to his apartment, his hand reaching for the gin bottle in an attempt to calm his racing thoughts. 

Fuck what Combeferre said (or didn’t say, in this case), Grantaire should have said yes to Courfeyrac’s offer. Because, if he was being really honest with himself, the phone number Enjolras had given him had been burning a hole in his pocket ever since that fateful morning and he couldn’t even count the number of times he had pulled it out and considered calling, ‘just to chat’.

Fuck, every time he went to call the number, the little voice at the back of his head reminded him that Enjolras was not only hot like burning and didn’t seem to know it which made it even worse but also crazy idealistic, super intelligent, grade A law student, passionate and Grantaire hated to admit it, but he was making a difference, living his dream. Then there was Grantaire a cynical, amoral prostitute. Someone even Enjolras’ best friend didn’t want associating with him. Because the closest Grantaire had ever come to his dreams nowadays was rough sketches on a grubby, sketchbook he hid underneath his mattress, lest anyone ever saw it. And law and politics? Well even if he could afford it, Grantaire would never last with a television in his apartment. Grantaire tried not to remember how it felt to argue with Enjolras. If he were honest with himself he liked the way his body felt when he bandied back and forth with Enjolras, even when it made Grantaire confess things he usually wouldn’t. There was a thrill in spirited debate that Grantaire had all but forgotten about. And where Grantaire’s own idealism might have been lost, the skill and fun of a contested argument stayed with him. For a few minutes, talking with Enjolras had made Grantaire feel alive again. 

What the hell did Enjolras mean anyway with his ‘just to chat’? Was that a euphemism? Was Enjolras just being nice? Would he have really wanted Grantaire to call? He had hoped so, but just in case he had taken to hiding the number every time he attempted to get drunk, just to save him the shame and embarrassment of drunk dialing Enjolras and saying god knows what his intoxicated mind could make up. In fact the little card had been handled so much by Grantaire that he had to copy down the number on a new piece of paper, thankful that the numbers hadn’t faded just yet. 

What had been worse was the traitorous tone his thoughts got when thinking about Enjolras. Was Enjolras even gay? Straight? There was no chance for Grantaire ‘turning’ Enjolras if he was, in fact, straight. Grantaire couldn’t believe that Enjolras would ever feel the need to hide his sexuality.

All Grantaire knew was that despite Enjolras being absolutely horrible at interpersonal communication, he managed to pry shameful pieces of trauma out of Grantaire every time they met. And Grantaire, who was the king of repressed memories, was not very happy about it. 

Infuriating, that’s what he was. But that was not exactly a sexuality. 

Although, to be fair, Grantaire had gotten shamefully bad at picking anyone’s sexuality nowadays. After quite a few years of being a prostitute he had dubbed his previously pristinely working gaydar as completely ruined. Funny you would have thought it would be fined tuned after his years as a prostitute. But now considering the completely dizzying array of men who paid for his services, most of whom Grantaire would never would have guessed being gay or at least bi-curious did in fact want a blowjob with stubble or fuck a guy with a penis. Figures though, those who were so far in the repressive closet were probably the ones most in need of a discreet prostitute. Because, as a rule, a prostitute didn’t usually want any of those pesky annoying things like relationships or commitment. 

So Jehan? Definitely gay, but this wasn’t a keen observation from a professionally trained eye, this was because he seemed to proudly wear it on his sleeve, which was a completely literal observation considering the shirts Grantaire had seen him wear.

Courfeyrac. Well that one was a little more complicated, but Grantaire was willing to bet that due to Courfeyrac’s keenness to try the same sex, he was at least bisexual.

Then there was Combeferre, who, by the lack of checking out on his part of Grantaire’s naked chest, was probably straight. Or, conversely, just being a respectful gentleman. Although Grantaire hadn’t had much experience of gentleman so he wasn’t willing to bet. But then again, knowing Combeferre, both options were as likely as the other; Combeferre was kind of an anomaly to Grantaire. 

Then there was Enjolras. At first glance Grantaire would say straight, just as a default kneejerk reaction. But after knowing him for the short amount of time that he had, Grantaire was leaning toward asexuality, just because he seemed so wrapped up in his work that sex didn’t even register on his radar. Or because of Enjolras’ lack of interest in sex/relationships with any gender, he had more energy and time to spend on other productive uses of his time. Like fighting social injustice and saving the world from pesky right wing conservative capitalists. Like any good world citizen should. Good case for more aces right there. 

But gay? Did Enjolras even register as gay? He dressed well but that didn’t necessarily mean he was gay. Hell, he was a non-frat, rich, white college boy of course he dressed well. Plus Grantaire knew plenty of gay guys that dressed abysmally. That stereotype wasn’t full proof. Not by a long shot. 

What else? Well Enjolras never once checked Grantaire out in a sexual way. In fact Enjolras’ gaze had seemed so clinical, so objective when he viewed Grantaire’s (naked) body he almost felt like he was a patient and Enjolras was the doctor. 

So Enjolras cared, Grantaire could at least say, but more like a kindly ruler who cared for all the little plebs below him because didn’t want to see any of his subjects suffer. Enjolras was just wired in that weird way that didn’t accept injustice of any kind and was fiercely passionate about stopping it. Grantaire was only on Enjolras’ radar because Enjolras wasn’t used to dealing with the human face of his causes and so why not pour as much fierce and passionate energy into that person as he does in the cause? Of course Enjolras does because he doesn’t know how to be anything else, it just sucked for the person (Grantaire) caught in the middle because for a few precious moments in the presence of someone like that (Enjolras) they feel like they’re important, special, worth something. And then arrives the come down, when they’re back at home and the whirlwind passes and they realize that they’re really only another ‘cause’ in the long list of people Enjolras has done it with. Grantaire took another swig of the paint thinner gin and absently wondered if Feuilly felt like last years Christmas toys, the children now bored of him and looking for something new and shiny. New and shiny like Grantaire (really needed to get over his irrational hatred for a guy he didn’t even know).

Well fuck that, Grantaire wasn’t some toy to play with. He had had to deal with enough savior complexes in his life, only to be shoved to the side. What he told Enjolras that other morning hadn’t been a hypothetical, there had been many instances of johns trying to ‘save’ him, but that instance had been the worst and last time Grantaire had put hope in ever pulling himself out of his. 

As the thoughts started flowing more incoherently and he was halfway to nice buzz from the gin, Grantaire was shocked out his stupor from a banging on his door. 

The extra masculine aggressive, loud banging only meant one thing. Montparnasse was there for the rent. 

“Coming Monty. Keep your ridiculously overpriced trousers on.”

The banging got louder at that nickname and Grantaire stumbled to the door, flinging it open, trying to look sober and responsible. Not that it mattered; Montparnasse had a pretty good idea of his habits, as Montparnasse was not your average slumlord come drug dealer come pimp. In fact if you happened to seen him walking down the street you’d mistake him for a well-dressed, handsome college student, in fact you’d probably mistake him for a model. All sharp angles and piercing green eyes, his nails immaculately trimmed and his dark hair carefully styled. The whole non-threatening look was all subterfuge however, and was one of the reasons that despite all his illegal activity, Montparnasse had never (and would never) seen the inside of a jail cell. The only concession he ever made to his life of crime was occasionally throwing on a leather jacket for drug deals but Hugo Boss though, of course, he wasn’t a barbarian. As unthreatening as the outside looked Montparnasse was a snake as bad as the worst of them. Grantaire knew that first hand. 

Today he was dressed in stovepipe cream chinos, dark brown boat shoes, white t-shirt and artfully weathered dark blue blazer. And to top it all off, hipster glasses, which Grantaire knew for a fact he didn’t need. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Burberry catalogue. 

“Grantaire, you’re looking fine as usual.” Montparnasse said finally, after a flicking full body check out, of which was his customary greeting. Grantaire didn’t care much for his appearance in front of Montparnasse, which, inapplicably seemed to endear him even further to fashion conscious pimp. 

Grantaire kept his overly false smile on and fought a shudder of revulsion, “Same to you Monty.” He replied evenly, enjoying the wince at the nickname. Apparently Monty wasn’t a great hipster drug dealer name, who knew?

“Had any more thoughts about joining up in partnership with me?” Montparnasse continued, striding into the apartment as if he owned the damn place (which he did of course, but that wasn’t the point).

Grantaire laughed incredulously, “You mean becoming one of your many working whores?”

Montparnasse grinned an unrepentant approving grin at the sarcasm, “Yeah, that. I’ve only got one boy working at the moment. Mallory I think he’s called, or Mal, definitely a ‘M’ sounding name. But he’s almost completely useless now; I think I might have overdone it on the meth you know? I forget what it does to the teenage body.”

Grantaire inwardly winced, teenager? Jesus Monty was a sick bastard. “My answer, as always, is no, thank you.”

Montparnasse leant back on the counter and pouted his ridiculously oversized pillow lips, “You wound me Grantaire. You truly do. Especially when there is so much in this deal for you. Like I know how much you have trouble getting in your rent on time and with this arrangement you wouldn’t have to pay your rent at all, plus you get all the free drugs and shit that you want and you only have to work 4 or 5 nights a week and you get 2 nights guaranteed off a week. It’s a win-win situation.”

Grantaire snorted, ah yes, manipulation at its finest, offer an addict even more substances to get addicted to and he’s putty in your hands. Yeah, well Grantaire had all the vices he needed; he didn’t need or want anymore. “Yeah win-win for who, for you? How many of my ‘free’ nights will be spent in your bed, huh?”

Montparnasse only smiled unrepentantly, moving forward to slightly cage Grantaire against the kitchen counter, “Would it really be so bad? I mean look at me; it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship to jump into bed with this, would it. Plus you enjoyed it once right?” He said gesturing to his body with a raised perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Grantaire swallowed convulsively, it wouldn’t be a hardship to sleep with Montparnasse. Not at all if you could forget you were jumping into bed with a potentially psychotic snake whose kinks varied from the extreme to the further extreme and didn’t take kindly to his bedmate saying “No.”

“You’re right, it wouldn’t be a hardship Montparnasse. But could you guarantee that I would come out the other side in one piece?”

Montparnasse stepped in closer; his body one long line against Grantaire’s and purred into his ear, “Of course my love, wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise would I? Can’t have you going out there all banged up could I? I’ll have Mallory for that anyway, the kid’s practically unworkable now for the streets but he has other uses. Many other uses.” The dreamy look on Montparnasse face sickened Grantaire, and he leaned back from him, as far as he could, it was easy to forget what kind of guy Montparnasse was before he said something ridiculously horrible like that. 

A flicker of flame lit in Grantaire’s chest, “A teenager Montparnasse? Seriously? Please tell me he’s over eighteen.”

Montparnasse stiffened and pulled back, his eyes glittering and hard, “Would it matter? Why should I care about his age? I started in this business when I was 14 and before then? Lets just say I never saw a cent of the cash I made for my pimp. Mallory should be grateful to me, I give him a roof over his head and a percentage of his earnings, which is more then what I ever got from my daddy.”

Jesus, Grantaire knew he was fucked up but he had nothing on this guy, “And how much of that ‘cash’ he earns goes back into the drugs you feed him huh? You think he wouldn’t want to leave if he had the choice?” Grantaire let a little bit of his old debate voice in, “Don’t try and convince me that he would choose to be with you and your sick little games.”

Montparnasse face reddened as banged his hand against the cabinets next to Grantaire’s head making Grantaire jump and flinch back, “Just like you have the choice Grantaire? You hate this life but you’ve never once tried to get yourself out of it, not truly. Face it, Grantaire, some of us are meant to not only live but thrive in societies gutter and you know it.” 

Montparnasse spat, his hard body, now rigid against Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire reared back, disgusted, “Don’t lump me in with you Montparnasse, I am nothing like you.” He said, trying as all hell to mimic his old brash and confident tone. 

Montparnasse smiled unpleasantly, “Nothing like me? Are you kidding Grantaire? You and me are two halves of whole; you just haven’t accepted it yet. I knew it from the moment I met you.”

Grantaire cast his mind back to the first time he had met Montparnasse. He had been 19 with nothing but the clothes on his back and a fucked up past. Not a good bet for tenant, in fact Grantaire had been two nights before becoming homeless. He had first seen Montparnasse when he had met up with his dealer for a few tablets of ecstasy, needing drugs, in the beginning, to get through a night of hooking. At least back then he had only done it on the weekends at clubs, before they stopped admitting him at the door when rumors had spread of Grantaire’s true reason for being there. 

Anyway, Montparnasse had been charming, good looking and most importantly, interested in Grantaire. So after some flirting and stupidity on Grantaire’s behalf they had fallen into bed together. It had been a memorable occasion for more then one reason as Grantaire had come away from that encounter with rope burns that had stung for weeks and deep tissue bruising on his thighs making him unable to walk properly for a month. 

But at least he had gotten a cheap ass apartment out of the ordeal. Unfortunately it had put Grantaire off rough stuff for the rest of his life. Which sucked when your profession involved plenty of rough alleyway encounters. 

Grantaire felt another twinge on his conscience; if that was how sex with Montparnasse was always like, he truly didn’t know how this Mallory kid was even still alive.

“I accept that we’re both fucked up ok? But difference between is us is that I’m not a drug dealer or a pimp, and I certainly don’t take advantage of teenage boys by supplying them with drugs and fucking them. And I don’t like hurting unwilling people just for kicks.”

Montparnasse leaned back smirking, his previous temper gone, “Don’t lie to yourself Grantaire, you know you enjoyed it. So does Mallory, and all that other stuff is immaterial, just because you don’t sell drugs or pimp out whores like me doesn’t mean nothing if you’re a whore. You sleep with people for money Grantaire, tell me how that is any worse or better then me?”

“Firstly I didn’t ‘love it’ and asking you to stop on so many occasions usually means I wasn’t enjoying myself and I doubt Mallory is either. And I’m a whore because a whole host of shitty decisions sent me here, not because I was born one. I know it doesn’t make me better then you but what does make me better then you is the fact that I don’t hurt anyone doing what I do.”

Montparnasse scoffed rolling his eyes, “You think you’re so jaded and cynical Grantaire but you’re delusional if you believe that. In fact you’re naïve if you think you don’t hurt anyone being a whore because the fact is that those men you fuck, or suck? They go home to their wives and girlfriends later at night smelling of something other then work and the wives wonder to themselves? Who is it? Who’s the other women? Until they realize that its not another woman, it’s a man, and then its not a just another man is it. It’s a whore. And how is that not hurting anyone Grantaire? How is that not on you?”

What? Fuck that that was so not on Grantaire, “It’s not on me because I’m not responsible for my john’s decisions Montparnasse I don’t make them cheat.”

“Ah but you are offering a choice are you not? I’ve seen you at your lamppost Grantaire, sucking on your cigarette. Practically begging for a dick in that fuckable mouth of yours. You can’t blame a straight man for turning for that. You’re practically asking them to fuck you.”

What kind fucked up thinking was that? Oh, yeah, the fucked up thinking of someone who thinks it ok to fuck an underage teenager. “I’m not responsible for the fact they can’t climb out of the fucking closet ok? I get by anyway I have to. It’s their choice to pick me up and pay me to suck them. What happens with their wives, girlfriends or whatever is not my concern. And if they cant keep it in their pants at the sight of some whore on the streets then they shouldn’t be in a relationship to begin with.”

“Ah so you’re a monogamous then, that explains so much about you Grantaire. Can’t be in a relationship when you’re fucking men on the side, even if it is only for money.”

Grantaire knew that all too bitterly, but he didn’t let it show. You couldn’t show weakness in front of a master manipulator like Montparnasse, “There’s nothing wrong with monogamy.”

Montparnasse lifted an eyebrow, “There isn’t? Hmmm it might not work out between you and me then. I mean if I’m not getting my kicks from you, then I have to get them elsewhere, a man has needs, after all.”

Grantaire felt himself shiver, and not the good sexy time shiver, more the ‘this guy is evil and I want him out of my apartment right now’ shiver. Jesus, he hadn’t known about Mallory. That was seriously fucked up. 

Ducking under Montparnasse’s arm Grantaire put distance between the two trying to contain his shaking.

“It’s a lovely offer, truly. But I’m going to have to decline.” Grantaire said in a hard voice. 

Montparnasse’s eyes turned cold and he took a step back, he was unpredictable on a good day, having gone from genial, to cajoling, to fury, to bemusement in the space of 10 minutes, Grantaire knew this intimately. 

“Not good enough for you now Grantaire? Word on the street is you’ve taken up with some fucking bible bashers.” Montparnasse spat out, his eyes flashing with jealousy? What? Since when did Montparnasse get jealous, “How did you get them on side huh? You suck them off so they’ll be nice to you? So you can be in their little group? But you and I both know you don’t belong with people like that. These so called ‘Worthy people.’ You and I were born in gutter and any attempt to get out is a fucking cop out. You and I we’re meant to be together Grantaire, why can’t you see that? We know what life’s really like, not like those rich college kids. We’re survivors Grantaire, we took whatever shit life threw at us and we came out the other side stronger and unbroken. You know what I did on my fourteenth birthday Grantaire? I killed my pimp daddy with a kitchen knife because I finally realized something; that nobody was coming to my rescue and I had to save myself. Nobody ever does anything for anyone else in this world, so if you think that your little groups coming to your save, you’re wrong. They’re just going to fuck you over again and over again, just like my pimp daddy. But us? We’re the same Grantaire; we can rule this city together. I’ll even get rid of Mallory. I need you.”

Grantaire stood stock still, his head reeling. He knew Montparnasse wasn’t right in the head, but this was some Charles Manson level of fucked up cult shit.

“Look I get that your life was shit. I do. But I can’t accept your offer Montparnasse, I mean you said it yourself, we’re meant to be alone aren’t we.”

 

A shutter fell over Montparnasse’s face at the rejection and Grantaire braced himself fro what was coming, Montparnasse could flay with words with the best of them. He wasn’t disappointed. 

“Fine, but you were born for fucking and that’s all you were ever born for Grantaire. And its about time you realized that you were never meant to be any better then that. And you know what? I’ll be there when you realize that. When you come crawling back to me. And I’ll tell you something now, I don’t play nice with my toys that disappoint me.”

And with that Montparnasse turned on his boat shoe heel and stalked out of the room.

Grantaire waited until his door slammed shut and he ran to lock it. Relief swept through him as felt his legs give way and he slid to the floor. Shaken, as he had never been before. Quickly he scrabbled for the gin bottle and took a long draught, needing it like he had just had the most exhausting experience of his life.

Well that had been decidedly fucked up. Who knew that Montparnasse was actually completely psychotically delusional Disney villain levels of crazy town banana pants? Thinking that they ‘belonged together in the gutter’, like some sort of pimp-tastic druggie version of Bonnie and Clyde (or Clyde and Clyde in this case).

At some level Grantaire had realized Montparnasse was dangerous; I mean you don’t become a pimp slumlord drug dealer without being at least a little bit sociopathic. But Montparnasse was way past that, psychopathic even. And what was worse was that he was a psychopath that had chosen Grantaire as object of his violent affection. That fact Grantaire hadn’t known, not in the slightest, even though Montparnasse had been hounding Grantaire for sex for years now ever since that first encounter, but Grantaire had always put that down to simply being a means to an end for Montparnasse. Because logically that’s what Grantaire’s entire profession was based on. It had never occurred to him that Montparnasse might have harbored some sort of ridiculous unrequited crush? How could he? That was usually Grantaire’s domain (Enjolras, ahem). No it wasn’t the quite scary and alarming declaration of love from Montparnasse that made him drink the gin like it water, but the confirmation of his own thoughts concerning the Les Amis. 

Because despite being the deranged mayor of crazy town Montparnasse had touched on a truth that even Grantaire couldn’t deny and that he had been kidding himself if he ever thought there was a place for him with the Les Amis. God, he was so thankful he had never called Enjolras now, he had only ever been kidding himself. And so what if Courfeyrac invited him to their Christmas dinner, he was only probably trying to get into Grantaire’s pants. That’s what it was all about for Grantaire these days, like being a prostitute stripped you of any and all respect afforded to ‘worthy people’. 

And Combeferre? Well he just had the right idea about not letting the likes of Grantaire anywhere near their precious little group ever again. They already had Fueilly, they didn’t need another one of the poor and destitute cluttering up their Ivy League popped collar Christmas. Or tempting away their precious Courfeyrac.

And Enjolras? Well had probably forgotten he had ever given Grantaire his number in the first place. There was no use for it now, Grantaire thought blurrily as he ripped up the piece of paper, scattering the pieces in the air like confetti, or cigarette ash. 

That was Grantaire’s last coherent thought before he slipped into unconsciousness. 

 

 

Tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you guys liked the chapter (and Montparnasse)!!
> 
> Also I'm thinking abut making a nice angsty 8tracks playlist for this fic so if you've got any great song(s) that you think I should to check out or add pleaaase tell me in the comments (seriously do because all I can think of is Johnny Cash's version of Hurt and that songs been done to death for E/R playlists!)
> 
> Thanks! xx


	12. Slow dance through hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! But this chapter wasn't even supposed to be here and then I had to restructure and then it needed to be here and then it became so hard to write! But now its in so i don't have to worry about it anymore, a fact of which i am extremely happy about. 
> 
> Ok so quick updates on tags - as you see I've put on the rape/non-con warning so if you need to know what happens for your own safety and well being then I suggest reading the end notes for specifics.
> 
> Also take note of other added tags!
> 
>  
> 
> Read on!

\- Grantaire

 

 

Grantaire woke up groggy with no idea of the time; his eyes crusty with sleep and his mouth dry as the Sahara desert. Scrubbing his eyes the first thing he blurrily when he opened them was a stinking puddle of vomit next to his mattress. Well at least he had passed out on his side and hadn’t choked himself with it. It was a small, life saving consolation. It would have been a pretty rock and roll way to go though (Jim Hendrix or Bon Scott anyone?), Grantaire supposed, shaking his head then promptly stopping at the throbbing pain made by that movement. 

Though, despite the ‘guaranteed to kill you’ amount of alcohol in his system Grantaire still felt like he was at the bottom of an endless pit. There was no euphoric high, no sense of peacefulness, there was absolutely no serotonin running through his system at all. So, in other words, his usual trusty vice (alcohol and it had been gin for goodness sake – an alcohol only drunk by grandmas and people stupid enough to think that it ‘tastes good’) had not done its job properly. It hadn’t managed to drag him from the depression gripping him at Montparnasse’s words. 

Fun fact, but Grantaire did actually know he had clinical depression. From the moment he had heard of it and its symptoms when he was 17, he had self-diagnosed on the spot. In fact knowing the name for something he thought had been drastically wrong with him had been a huge relief. And he wasn’t just the only one; there were thousands if not millions just like him. And to find out there were treatments? Drugs, counseling, lifestyle changes had given him even more hope. Until he realized that he had no money, no universal healthcare, no parents, and no means to access any of the things that could make him better. A doctor’s visit alone would have set him back more then he could have earn waiting tables for a month at that age. 

So he had never gotten help, not even when he won his scholarship and attended college for a year. There was no money for it; the (very generous) scholarship went on tuition, housing, and books (still not enough so he had to pick up 20 hours a week work). And after a stressful, overwhelming but quite successful first semester Grantaire had gone out with his friends and celebrated. The relief and liberation from the work had been so great he had buckled and taken his friend up on an offer of ecstasy. An offer he had never chosen before because he hadn’t wanted to end up like his drug addicted parents. He should of known the reason they (Enjolras) called it a cycle because despite trying so desperately hard to break free from his parents life of drugs, addiction and prostitution, he was hooked right back into it, if only in a different city. 

So, obviously when he took the tablet, and others like it, he finally felt the depression, the anxiety, the overwhelming despair leave his body and get replaced by feelings he had never had; euphoria, peace and joy. And at the time it had been brilliant, like waking up from a bad dream that had been his previous life. But It had also been a dangerous, heady, addictive first dip into the drugs scene and one Grantaire, unfortunately, but inevitably embraced full heartedly, trying everything and anything he could get his hands on, partying for days, missing school and failing his classes. 

Grantaire hadn’t identified it then, but what he had been doing was essentially self-medicating for his illness, using the drugs to combat his own head. Except, like addiction does, the comedowns from his partying were incredibly horrible and destructive to his mind making the depression worse. The amount of times Grantaire had thought about suicide on those comedowns was staggering, he couldn’t even count, and the faint (And not so faint) scar marks on his wrist could attest to it.

Not only that but he got cut off from him scholarship. His failing grades and lack of attendance making him lose the only chance he ever had for any type of success. And because he had been kicked out of his housing, he lost his job and his only reliable source of income and was thus cut off from the drugs (which was a blessing in disguise – a poverty enforced detox was really the only reason he wasn’t a full blown drug addict today). So Grantaire had been lucky that he had never truly had the chance become a full-blown addict, to any drugs that is. His only experience of drug use since had been pills he used to pop to get him through night of hooking. But they had long since not been a necessity, you eventually grew a thick skin in the prostitution business. 

The alcohol, however, had begun as a way for Grantaire to deal with the comedowns, often making him pass out and sleeping out the worst of the mood swings. But it had soon become a dependence for him, very quickly replacing the expensive drugs and weed both in its affordance and access. At least when he was drinking alcohol he wasn’t buying his way an inch closer back into Montparnasse’s bed. 

And thus, this is where he ended up. In a squalid apartment, by himself with a puddle of vomit next to him contemplating his very existence and with a faintly growing desperation for a high, a craving he hadn’t had in a while. The little voice that came to him in his darkest times was back niggling at him, questioning him and overwhelming an already tenuous mind. And with it came that familiar itch for a high, something that would affect him greater then caffeine, alcohol or cigarettes. A euphoric high. Not ice, Grantaire shuddered, even he wasn’t stupid enough for ice, desperate but not stupid enough. 

Grantaire got to his feet with a wobble, bracing himself on his kitchen counter, the stark memory of being boxed in by Montparnasse coming back sharply and making him nauseous again. See, that was the catch with guys like Montparnasse, they were crazy right? They were psychopaths. But they were also smart, intelligent and they knew how to manipulate only like an abuser worth his/her salt knows how. And Montparnasse had Grantaire’s ticket all right, latching on to the one thing he had hope in in years and tarnishing, dirtying the very thoughts of Enjolras and the Les Amis in Grantaire’s head. Making him question everything he had ever thought or felt about them, about Enjolras. God it was bad if Grantaire was questioning Enjolras of all people. Dammit Montparnasse, who on the one hand was completely ridiculous, but on the other made a sort of sick sense to Grantaire’s feverish, diseased head. Montparnasse was not exactly breaking new ground but he what he doing was parroting back almost every suspicious, paranoid, despondent thoughts Grantaire had ever had. Legitimizing and validating poisonous and harmful feelings, turning what might have been one of Grantaire’s strengths against him. 

Grantaire quickly checked his stash of money he kept beneath the sink. Not enough for anything except weed. 

Grantaire thought frantically, he needed more money for what he was looking for, something strong enough to drive out the toxic thoughts. So logically he needed a john. A quickie with a john would get him enough money to go to Montparnasse for a fix. Although he surmised, could just sleep with him and get drugs that way. Cut out the middleman? No need for money if you pay in sex right? 

“No,” Grantaire muttered to himself. If he got into Montparnasse’s bed for drugs he probably would never get back out, now that he knew the extent of crazy in that guy. That was probably how Mallory had sealed his horrific fate. Although did it matter anymore? Grantaire was all alone, he had no friends, no family. No life. Whoring wasn’t a life. Was it better to go out in a haze of sex and drugs with Montparnasse, like a rock star? Jimi Hendrix did it. That made it ok didn’t it?

Stilling his junkie thoughts, Grantaire made a concession, he vowed that he would go straight to Montparnasse if he couldn’t score a john. But first things first, he had to check the time.

8.15pm

Grantaire had been passed out longer then had had thought, the dark, dank curtains in his apartment disguising the time. But at least it was late enough to head out to his lamppost. 

Grantaire quickly cleaned up, albeit distracted and jittery, almost slipping over in his haste to get out of the shower’s cold water. He pulled on his whoring clothes awkwardly as his skin was still damp and shoved his feet into his boots, promptly leaving the apartment and barely noticing the cold as he walked. 

Grantaire felt almost motivated now that he had a plan. The depressive poisonous cloud lifting for just a few moments making him notice the steam of his breath as he breathed out and the beautiful cloudless starry night. 

At the corner to his street Grantaire was met with Tom, cute little Tom with his sparkly makeup and high-heeled boots. See, Tom could get away with shit like that with his boyish charm and innocent looks. Grantaire, however, couldn’t. His shoulders just a touch too wide, and his brow just a little too prominent. At best, when he dressed up, he’d look kind of like a drag queen and at worst he looked like a bad Halloween costume. 

“Hey Grantaire!” Tom said cheerfully, his attitude, as always, chipper and full of pep. 

Surprising in a prostitute, really. 

“Hey Tom. Nice eye shadow.” Grantaire returned with a roguish grin, his body faintly humming with relief now that he was on his way to his fix.

Tom, for all his whoring, blushed prettily at Grantaire and grinned self consciously, “Ta. Cost me a dollar from the markets. It was actually five dollars but I got a discount because the lady reckoned I was sleeping rough.”

“Its nice, really suits your eyes. Maybe I should get me some, pretty up this ugly mug huh? Might attract a few more customers. What do you recon?”

Tom looked up sharply, his features scandalized, “No! Don’t do that!” He said, his face coloring again as he glanced down at his shoes and back up at Grantaire through his eye lashes (kid was a total pro, mind the pun), “I mean you shouldn’t cover up your face with makeup, Grantaire. You’re beautiful.”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to blush violently. What a fine pair of whores they made, not batting an eyelash at the thought of spit roasting and face fucking but blushing at the mere mention of the possibility of being beautiful. But that was what being a prostitute did to people. Screwed up the priorities.

“Oh, um I’m not, you are. But thanks.” Grantaire said awkwardly, scuffing his feet at the wet concrete like an embarrassed sixth grader.

Tom squeaked out a protest but remained silent, his eyes still on his pink sparkly cowboy boots before turning away quickly and rushing back to his corner. 

Well that had been unexpected, Grantaire thought. Beautiful? Him? Tom must have a few screws loose, or maybe he meant on the inside. But Tom would have been wrong about that too. Montparnasse was right, Grantaire was sick and ugly, both inside and out.

By this time Grantaire’s hands were itching for a fix. His body thrumming with a need to get high. He watched distractedly as a big burly guy with grey hair and an eyebrow scar walked up to Tom and started talking to him as Tom did his flirty little pose thing. Their conversation seemed to tense up and Tom started leaning away from the big guy shaking his head, his eyes wide with fear when suddenly the guy grabbed at Tom and Tom quickly danced out of the guys reach, his eyes flashing and his hands clenched in anger. The guy seemingly giving up spat something back at him but walked away back up the street. And before Grantaire could go over to check on him, Tom was already jumping into the car of another john and Grantaire was left all alone. It was not uncommon for whore to have run-ins like that, sometimes not very nice men frequented the area and they all tried to stay clear. The few odd guys were fine, but it was the real creepy weirdo’s you had to look out for, the ones that rang the ‘serial killer’ alert when they came along. 

An hour passed and Grantaire started getting more anxious. He had chain smoked his entire last packet of cigarettes and by now his eyes were practically blurring with desperation (that might have been the tar smoke though) and his nails were scratching at his wrists with nothing else to occupy them, another sure sign of junkie behavior.

It seemed ridiculous that after all this time that Grantaire still got caught up in the wave of need, want and addiction, like it was stamped onto his very DNA that he would end up like his parents eventually and die alone in a junkie squat; pale, sickeningly skinny and marred with scabs from scratching at himself constantly, in need of a fix. And he hated it with everything in him. But it didn’t make him stop wanting, nothing did and all it had taken was a timely meeting with Montparnasse when his guards had been lowered by running into to Combeferre and Courfeyrac to tip him over the cliff he had been hanging onto for god knows how long. 

The last couple of cars that had driven past hadn’t lingered and Grantaire started biting his fingernails down to the quick, almost ready to pack up his pride and head to Montparnasse’s straight. So when a hooded guy walked up his street, shoulders hunched and slumped like he was there for no good, Grantaire practically jumped at the chance to catch a john. 

Sure enough he came in Grantaire’s direction and pulled up a few meters away, his hood obscuring most of his face.

“You Grantaire?” The guy asked, his voice rough and nasally. 

What was this? A recommendation? From who? No johns knew his real name. As a rule Grantaire generally didn’t sleep with people who knew his real name. Not anymore at least. 

“You looking to buy?” Grantaire attempted to purr, sidestepping the question and cocking his hip (but knowing he would never look half as sexy as Tom when Tom did it – Grantaire might have enough allure and tricks to get the odd john but he was so wasn’t in Tom’s league at all when it came to luring in a customer, tonight’s slim pickings were showing that very clearly).

“I’m not looking to buy if you’re not Grantaire.” Hooded guy answered in a harder voice.

Grantaire debated with himself whether to say yay or nay. Apparently saying yes would land him a john on a slow night like this, but was he desperate enough to reveal his name? “I’m Grantaire.” He said eventually, deciding against his better judgment, because fuck his better judgment, it had gotten him nowhere except out here in the cold, selling his ass and real his name, for a fix. 

The guy nodded and glanced around at the almost empty street, “Then I want to fuck you.” He said, his voice still nasally and creepy, like the funny uncle that you always tried to stay clear of at Christmas lunch. 

Alarm bells started going at the back of Grantaire’s mind, honed after years of work in a business that required the selling of ones body without the protection of any security or background checks and a childhood filled with an almost constant game of ‘hide from the predator mummy let into the house’. 

The alarm was faint but it was still there. First the hood, then the name? This guy had to be bad news. 

“It’ll be $200.” Grantaire said, once again ignoring the warning calls and stilling the shaking in his hands by crossing them over his chest (Jesus, could he look more like a junkie right now?). 

“Whatever. You do alleys?” The guy asked, rocking back on his heels, seemingly relieved that Grantaire was, well, himself. 

Grantaire usually didn’t, alleys were cold and gross and smelled disgusting, but he didn’t have the patience to wait for someone else. $200 would be more then enough to get high, especially from Montparnasse. Even if hooded guy was creepy. But, Grantaire reasoned, he fucked plenty of creepy guys, creepy guys who only wanted a BJ or to fuck him, or on one memorable occasion wanted Grantaire to fuck them. That had been a memorable experience for both of them.

“Sure. Where did you want to go?”

The guy turned his back on Grantaire and walked up the street with a muttered “Follow me.”

Grantaire stuck his tongue out at hooded guy’s back at the rudeness but followed him up a couple of blocks, around the back of a strip club and down a secluded alleyway that stunk of garbage. See, Grantaire really knew how gross alleyways seemed to always be. 

Taking out a condom in his pocket Grantaire held it out for the guy, “Take it and put it on.”

“You didn’t say anything about a condom. Or lube.” Hooded guy said motioning his hand to the lube packet in Grantaire’s other hand.

Grantaire blinked at the guy and said incredulously, “It’ll be $300 without the condom, but you’re sure as fuck not fucking me without lube. I don’t have a self lubricating asshole, asshole.” 

The guy straightened up, his hood slipping as loomed over Grantaire, (who, incidentally, quickly noticed that the guy was well over 6 ft. without his slouch) “I say what goes. I’m the fucking customer and if I say no lube and condoms, then we’re not using lube or condoms. You’re a fucking faggot whore, you must be used to being fucked dry.”

Grantaire reared back, suddenly recognizing the partially uncovered face underneath the hood. Dark greying hair and plain features, no one you would take a second look at, except for his height and except for the eyebrow scar. It had been the guy that had grabbed Tom earlier. 

Dammit. Not just a creep but a dangerous self loathing gay homophobe. Wonderful, you couldn’t always pick them but they were usually the ones that didn’t want to talk, didn’t want you to see their face and tried to smack you around a bit as they fucked you, like your very existence on earth was the reason they were gay. Grantaire couldn’t think of another motive as to why the guy would need to cover his face. Plus Tom had already turned him down which meant this guy was very, very bad news. Maybe even serial killer bad news. Tom knew his johns. 

So logically, this was probably the best time for Grantaire to run. But hadn’t he already come to far not to score his money? Plus the ‘faggot whore’ comment had kind of made him incredibly irrationally angry, the old spark in him flaring again at the offense (Grantaire blamed Enjolras).

“Fuck off freak! I may be a faggot whore but I’m not stupid. If you put you’re dick in me without lube you’re going to tear me in half. What are you, a fucking idiot?” 

Antagonizing him had probably not been Grantaire’s finest move, but he was irritable, hung over and kind of sick of the bullshit, did he really deserve this? Did he really deserve to be treated like he was scum? Like he was meant to live in the gutter (fuck you very much Montparnasse). Plus he really, really hadn’t liked that ‘faggot whore’ comment. Whore was fine but ‘faggot’? Well that was just belligerent. What was this? The 1970’s? Did this guy think it was still illegal to practice sodomy in this country too?

Whilst Grantaire was raging and seething (his apathy seemingly disappearing in a moment of fury) he was caught unaware, because, despite his small stature, he had pretty good reflexes from a teenage life as a boxer, but he wasn’t paying the attention he should have to a possible hostile john, so when it happened, the punch came out of nowhere. One moment Grantaire was standing, hands on hips, all up in this guys face the fury of anger, a debating background and Enjolras fueling him, and the next moment his head was snapping back from a quick, hard punch to the face, he was then scruffed by his shirt, turned around and tripped into the side of the alleyway. The move was way too smooth to have been done by anything other then a professional Grantaire noted as he struggled against the wall, his arms braced above his head in hooded guys meaty hands. The guy pushed Grantaire against the wall harder as he struggled and Grantaire’s face was squeezed against the bricks of the wall, his nose painfully throbbing as if broken and he could taste blood on his lips. The guy’s hard body was a line against his frame and something was sticking into the curve of his lower back. Well three guesses for what that was, Grantaire thought sourly, angrier at the fact that they guy had gotten the drop on him then scared. 

“Stay still and this will all be over in a minute.” The guy said unpleasantly, puffing into his ear, the excitement in his voice palpable as he ground his erection into Grantaire’s back.

“Yeah no, that’s not going to happen without some fucking lube. And don’t think you’re not paying extra for all this blood buddy, I’m not a punching bag for your internalized repressive hatred.” Grantaire spat back at him, his voice muffled against the bricks. 

Grantaire instantly wished that he had the capability to keep his mouth shut in possible life threatening situations as the guy suddenly snarled in rage and flung Grantaire to the ground like a ragdoll. Grantaire felt (and heard) his head crack against pavement as pain lanced through spine. But that was nothing to the pain in his kidneys, chest and back when the guy started laying into him with his heavy boots. The first kick went to Grantaire’s kidneys as instinctively he curled into a protective ball, arms over his head; a position he was sickeningly familiar with as it had been one he had had to adopt plenty of times in his childhood.

The onslaught continued as Grantaire heard the vague hisses of ‘faggot’, ‘stupid fucking queer’ and ‘worthless whore’ through the ear that wasn’t currently pouring out blood.

A particularly vicious blow to the back of Grantaire’s head made his mind go fuzzy and his limbs go slack; his head lolled back and he suddenly felt himself being rolled over on to his belly, feeling a heavy weight settle on his back. He was being straddled, and Grantaire could faintly feel fumbling hands at the buckle of his belt. 

“If you wanted to do a rape fantasy you just had to tell me idiot.” Grantaire slurred up at the guy, the sickening feeling in his stomach solidifying when he realized that the guy didn’t and hadn’t wanted his cooperation at all in their coupling. 

“You shut your fucking mouth, gutter whore, and spread your legs like you were made to,” the man spat into his ear, the words strangely faintly familiar to Grantaire’s fuzzy mind but any attempt to grasp their relevance was like trying to hold on to water, or a dream. It just slipped out of Grantaire’s fingers and left him with a horrible sense of dread. Well-founded dread as the last thing Grantaire felt before he succumbed to the darkness threatening on his consciousness was a sudden cold burst of air on his legs as his pants were yanked off. 

 

 

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape/non-con warning: Occurs at the end of the chapter between Grantaire (victim) and an unnamed john. The scene starts out as a consensual transaction between a sex worker and a client however it soon spirals into a non-consensual/implied rape, however it is not super explicit and it is fade to black (the act is not actually detailed at all except for the lead up).


	13. What some call delusion, others call focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was originally, like, super long (7000 words to be exact) so i had to cut it because I'm trying, emphasis on trying, to keep the chapters vaguely consistent in length at the moment. And I know i got a heap of lovely comments on my last chapter and I'll hopefully get around to replying over the next couple of days! (extra special thanks to some brilliant song recommendations!).
> 
> So if this chapter feels weird or unfinished, know that the next chapter is coming hot on its heels, thus the reason for the 'to be continued...'
> 
> Also you may note that the length of the fic has increased (from 17 chapters to 19 chapters) and this is due to me not wanting to rush the ending, coz thats the worst when you really like a fic but the ending feels like its been squeezed in too tightly and plot threads just aren't pulled together properly and it kind of ruins it.  
> So sorry about that but i just want to finish this fic well for you guys seeing as its the longest thing i've ever written and people seem to like it which is both terrifying and awesome at the same time and makes me scared to mess things up! 
> 
> Enjoy!

Enjolras

 

 

It wasn’t as if Enjolras was obsessed. Or ridiculous for that matter. So what if he compulsively checked his phone for any sign of Grantaire calling him every fifteen minutes. It wasn’t as if he was fixated, not at all, he just wanted to make sure that he didn’t miss Grantaire calling. That was all.

Combeferre hadn’t said anything but Enjolras knew he was worried about him.  
But Enjolras just couldn’t shake the feeling that something had maybe happened to Grantaire. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch and no how many times Jehan argued that Grantaire probably wouldn’t call at all Enjolras still worried.

“Enjolras, you don’t get it. Grantaire thinks he deserves this fate. He thinks all he deserves out of life is the existence he leads. And if what he said was true then he’s unlikely to accept help from anyone. He can’t trust you, and its got nothing to do with you. Its not that he thinks you as an individual is untrustworthy, it’s that he’d been bitten by a dog too many times before and now he doesn’t go near any dogs in case they all bite him. So if you’re that desperate to talk to him maybe you should go see him.”

Enjolras thought over what Jehan had said. It was a logical option, but he had the faintest feeling of unease, he wasn’t actually sure that Grantaire even liked him. He seemed to barely tolerate him at the best of times and that was when they didn’t say anything to each other. 

So he compromised on it and took Jehan with him to find Grantaire that night. But when they pulled up to Grantaire’s lamppost he was nowhere to be seen, despite his work mates being out in force.

“Maybe he’s with a, um, a client?” Jehan said tentatively and Enjolras blew out a breath and clenched his hands on the dash.

“I didn’t even think of that, what if he is? Maybe we should wait?”

Jehan looked up and down the street contemplatively, “I’ve got an idea, why don’t we ask Jim and Tom?”

Enjolras frowned, “Who are Jim and Tom?”

Jehan motioned his hand near the edge of the street, “They’re just over by the corner, we gave them soup and jackets the night we met Grantaire, remember?”

Enjolras honestly didn’t remember much of that night except for the sickening feeling he had felt when he witnessed Grantaire falling and cracking his head on the pavement. But he wasn’t surprised that Jehan had remembered their names. Jehan, who couldn’t remember where he put the remote control, remembered every Care recipient name and face they had ever met, which had to be into the hundreds now. When Enjolras questioned him about it, Jehan had smiled shyly, “I dunno, names help do this stuff.”

“What does that mean”

Jehan sighed, “Name’s are important to me Enjolras, they personalize everyone we meet. They make every homeless man, every prostitute, every starving family real to me, so I never forget why we do this. When I’m having trouble getting out of bed for early morning soup duty or don’t want to go out into the cold for Care duties I just recite and remember as many faces and names as I can and it motivates me to remember how incredibly lucky I am that I’m not on my own list which I most definitely could have been, and gets me out there doing my stuff.”

Enjolras had immediately understood, this work was more personal for Jehan then any one else in their group, except maybe Feuilly.

So Enjolras trusted Jehan and pulled up at Jim and Tom’s corner.

The fair-haired one, Tom, leaned over the window and threw them a big grin when he recognized Jehan. 

“Hey Tom!” Jehan said, smiling at the guy, his nerves and anxiety completely forgotten when he’s doing his Care stuff. 

“Jehan! How you doing? You here to give out more soup?” Tom said eagerly eyeing the back of their car keenly as if they might be hiding it.

Jehan’s face fell a little, Enjolras knew how much he hated disappointing people, “Not tonight Tom, sorry. We don’t have our stuff with us, we just had a quick question is all.”

“No worries, probably all for the best, need to keep my girlish figure after all. What did you want to know?”

Enjolras cast his eyes over Tom’s skinny frame, noting the impossibly slim limbs and feeling concerned over the young man's health. 

“We were wondering if you’ve seen Grantaire around tonight? He’s about 5ft 8 and skinny, dark curly hair?”

Tom nodded vigorously and seriously, his blonde hair flapping about his face, “Yeah we know Grantaire! He’s the pretty one with the eyes.”

Jehan shot a sly smile at Enjolras, who glared back, before replying, ‘Yep, that’s him. You seen him?”

Tom squinted his mascara-clad eyes in thought and shook his head, “I haven’t seen him for a few days. Which is weird coz he’s out here almost as much as we are!” Tom finished enthusiastically.

Enjolras shared a worried look with Jehan, “Can you remember the last time you did see him?”

Tom’s eyes widened at Enjolras like he hadn’t realized Jehan had been in the car with someone else, “Um, Wednesday, I think, he said he liked my eye shadow.” Tom finished smiling bashfully, looking at his shoes. Well it looked like Grantaire may have one more admirer to add to the list Enjolras noted sharing a look with Jehan, but he was more worried about the timing of the last glimpse of Grantaire, it had been the night of the meeting between him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 

“Thanks Tom. We’ll be around on the weekend if you needed anymore soup or blankets.”

Tom grinned and cocked his hip, “Thanks Jehan! You sure you don’t want anything else? Half price for you and your friend here.” He said waggling a well -groomed eyebrow at them both. 

Jehan blushed, “Ah, no, thank you Tom. But thanks.”

After cheerfully waving them off Tom stepped back from the curb and Enjolras pulled away. 

“So he hasn’t been seen for the past couple of days. What the hell does that mean?” Enjolras said, frustrated at not finding Grantaire. 

Jehan shook his head, “He could have gone and gotten help somewhere else?” Jehan said as though not convinced.

“But why wouldn’t he come to us? And if that’s the case, where could he be?”

“Maybe he’s taking a few days off?” Jehan suggested. 

“Maybe, but I doubt him being able to afford not to work, not with that skeezy landlord hounding him for his rent constantly.”

Jehan frowned thoughtfully, “I know it’s a long shot but maybe he got himself a day job and doesn’t have to hook anymore. I mean it could have happened, right?”

“Maybe.” Enjolras said, unconvinced. 

They were silent for awhile before Enjolras looked sideways at Jehan when they topped at a red traffic light noticing he was still a slight shade of pink from Tom’s proposition, “Are you still embarrassed?” He asked, not unkindly. 

Jehan went redder, his face clashing with his bright orange jacket, before shaking his head, “It’s not everyday I get propositioned by someone as good-looking as Tom.”

Enjolras sighed, “Jehan, he’s a prostitute, it’s his job to pick up guys.”

Jehan hunched in his chair, “It’s not like I’m that used to it happening to me, ok? And you know my issues with ‘that’ particular activity.”

Enjolras did know, Jehan hadn’t always lived the safe life that he did now, in fact he’d be willing to bet Grantaire and Jehan would have a lot to talk about if they ever opened up about their past experiences with sex.

Jehan was silent for a moment before speaking quietly, “Its not even got anything to do with Tom you know? Its like that even if I really want to have sex, I just can’t. I can’t control it.”

Enjolras nodded, there was a reason Jehan hid himself under layers of overlarge glaringly bright clothes with loud, obnoxious signage and it which was more to do with protection then personality, not that Jehan didn’t have a bright personality, which he did. It was just that it was a measure of security for him; you’d never catch Jehan outside the house without at least two layers of clothing.

“My therapist wants me to go out on a date you know.” Jehan said, fiddling with his sleeve and not looking at Enjolras before continuing agitatedly, pulling at a tray thread, “But I just hate the though that the guy opposite me couldn’t really care less about me as a person, and is just waiting for the chance to get into my pants. It just makes me so uncomfortable I can’t even eat, you know?”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac had tried to convince Jehan that not all guys were like that, but Jehan’s previous experiences with men and sex had been a hard thing to get past.

When Enjolras didn’t say anything Jehan continued, “Fuck sometimes I wish I wasn’t even gay you know? I bet you that a woman would be interested in me as a person and wouldn’t try to drag me up to their apartment for a ‘coffee’ every chance they could.”

Enjolras had to agree in part, he didn’t like to generalize but he wasn’t always fond of strong come on’s that other men seemed to enjoy, “Are you going to go on a date then?”

Jehan sighed in defeat, his frustration seemingly put on the backburner for now, “Yeah, I mean she’s a therapist, she should know what’s right or wrong? She recon’s I’ve got a fear of intimacy.”

“Isn’t a fear of intimacy someone who goes around screwing everyone they can but runs at the first hint of seriousness?” Enjolras says frowning, at least that was what Courfeyrac had said. 

“Yeah, but apparently it can manifest the opposite way too. Especially if, you know, you’ve had a history like mine.” Jehan said quietly before changing the subject quickly, “Anyway, I’ve got a late shift at the rehab centre tomorrow night so if you’re coming back to look for Grantaire you should probably take Combeferre. Or Courfeyrac?” 

Enjolras’ uncomfortably shifted in his seat a the mention of Courfyrac, Jehan sighed, “You have to forgive him sometime Enjolras.”

“No I don’t.” He said stubbornly. 

Jehan punched him lightly in the shoulder, “He’s said ‘sorry’ about a million times and you’re still giving him the cold shoulder. Jesus Enjolras he’s killing himself for your forgiveness. He’s been doing double shifts at the shelter and down at legal aid. I mean he’s always there when I am. He’s been doing so much all for you.”

“Guilt shouldn’t be a better motivation for him then the thousands of homeless and needy in this city. Something he should have remembered the night he picked up Grantaire.” Enjolras said, his jaw set. 

Jehan rolled his eyes, “Look, just admit it. You’re more pissed off he picked up Grantaire then you are he picked up a random prostitute. Because at least your righteous anger would have cooled off if you knew how much work Courf’s been doing for Les Amis. But you’re not, which means its more personal for you.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth and didn’t answer. He didn’t want to admit it to himself but if it was because of his ‘feelings’ for Grantaire then he’s no better then those johns who promised him the world and then dropped him when it got hard. Or no better then Courfeyrac.

 

****

 

The next night it was Combeferre in the car seat next to Enjolras.

“I have a confession to make.” He said abruptly as he swung into the car, his navy scarf flapping in the wind and his face set. 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow; there were never any secrets between them so there had never been any reason for ‘confessions.’

“Oh?”

Combeferre grimaced, “You know how Courfeyrac and I told you we saw Grantaire last week?”

Enjolras nodded but immediately felt his shoulders tighten like he did every time he heard any mention of Grantaire’s name nowadays.

“Yeah well you remember that Courfeyrac said he asked Grantaire to the Christmas lunch and Grantaire had said no?”

Enjolras remembered clearly the stupid hope and warmth that he had felt when he heard that they had asked and the crushing disappointment when they said he said no.

“Well it didn’t go exactly like that. We did ask him, or Courfeyrac did at least. And because you said you were going to find him and ask him out yourself, well I might have indicated, to Grantaire at least, that I you didn’t really want him to come and Courfeyrac was asking as a spur of the moment thing.”

Enjolras took a breath, “How did he get that impression?”

“Well me and Courfeyrac were doing our no words arguing thing that we do and Grantaire caught the wrong end of the stick, I think he thought I may have been saying that you wouldn’t want him at the Christmas dinner when what I was really saying was you probably would have wanted to ask him yourself rather then Courfeyrac and then he walked away from us upset before we could explain. Please don’t blame Courfeyrac; he was so desperate to get into your good books that I think he took things into his own hands. And it was me that was arguing with him telling him we should have let you do it which id the reason Grantaire walked off the way he did.”

Enjolras let his shoulders drop, a simple misunderstanding. He couldn’t blame Combeferre or even Courfeyrac for that matter. Grantaire had just been his usual distrustful and paranoid self. Enjolras couldn’t really blame him either. 

“It’s ok. I mean I’m not sure if it would have been enough to scare Grantaire away, or not call me, but thank you for telling me.”

Combeferre looked at him in surprise. 

“What?” Enjolras said, irritated by the expression. 

Combeferre quickly cleared his face, “Nothing. Its just that I you’ve been so wound up lately that I was prepared for an Enjolras verbal bashing, not acceptance.”

‘I haven’t been wound up.”

“Enjolras, you’re been so wound up recently that you’ve yelled at 4 different volunteers, you’ve barely commented on the continued campaign to commercialize Christmas, we’ve had articles written about us in 4 different newspapers calling us the Ivy League Street Revolutionaries or even worse, The Subway Philosophers, and you’ve barely cared. And you’ve, well, you haven’t evem forgiven Courfeyrac yet.”

“Those newspapers are always inaccurate, they’re calling me the Mother Theresa of New York for god sake, its completely ridiculous. And why on earth do they have to mention my physical attributes? What kind of journalistic purpose does that serve? I’d much rather they advertise our next protest rally or list our hopes for the future of this city, not all this commercialized crap. It’s as if principles don’t matter to them anymore and their just looking for what will sell the story.”

Combeferre smiles, “So where has that outrage been the last couple of weeks?”

“I may have been a bit distracted,” Enjolras admitted, his hands gripping the wheel tighter, “But what does Courfeyrac have to do with any of this?”

“Everything. He’s everything to do with this. This is the Courfeyrac who you punched out when you were 17 when you had your breakdown. This is the Courfeyrac who stayed with you an entire month when you were released from hospital for said breakdown. This is the Courfeyrac that took you to London last year to see Colm Ó Cuanacháin speak at the Amnesty International headquarters for your birthday. This is the Courfeyrac who has been one of your best friends since high school, even longer then I. So tell me, what’s the real issue here, because even you wouldn’t throw your friendship away for a mistake that’s been apologised for.”

Enjolras sat silently, a little stunned. He’d never thought about it like that before. If he was being honest with himself he had probably forgiven Courfeyrac weeks ago. Courfeyrac had been incredibly important to the success of the Les Amis and one lapse of judgement shouldn’t have warranted Enjolras’ treatment of him. So what was the real issue here?

“I think I forgave Courf weeks ago. I just don’t know why I seem to be still upset about it all.”

Combeferre looked relieved, “Then Grantaire’s the reason you’re still pissed.”

Enjolras searched himself, it was weird to be so uncertain, he was never unsure about his convictions, it made him such a great orator, because if your fully convinced in what you do, other people will be too. But this was different, this was, well this was Grantaire, he was a complete mystery when it came to Enjolras.

“Not really. It’s just that every time I think of Grantaire and Courfeyrac together I just so inexplicably angry and I can’t control how I act toward Courfeyrac. I can’t seem to disconnect the two.”

Combeferre looked a little bit awed, “Holy shit Enjolras, you’re not angry at Courfeyrac for violating our principles, you’re not even angry because you want what’s best for Grantaire. You’re jealous because Courfeyrac picked Grantaire that night. You’re jealous because they almost had sex and you wanted to be the one having sex with Grantaire.”

Enjolras drove on autopilot, his mind swirling in confusion. Jealousy? Was that what he felt every time Courfeyrac had mentioned Grantaire? 

“That cant be it Combeferre. It just can’t.”

“Enjolras, I think it is. I think you are jealous.”

“No, Combeferre. Please, it can’t be true.” Enjolras shook his head, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel again. 

“Jesus Enjolras, why the hell not?” Combeferre said concerned, obviously reacting to his friend’s extreme stress. 

Enjolras took a breath, “Because if it’s true then it makes me no better then those johns that pick Grantaire up. It makes me no better then Courfeyrac who cant control his libido. It makes me no better then those guys who fucked him and then gave up helping him because it was all too hard.”

Combeferre looked shocked, well as shocked as he could, Combeferre’s mild reactions to everything had been one of the reasons Enjolras often had his crisis conversations with him and this definitely counted as a crisis conversation, “It makes you nothing like those guys Enjolras, or even, though I hate to say it, like Courfeyrac. There’s a huge difference between you and them, Enjolras.” Combeferre finished, his hand resting of his friends shoulder. 

“Really?” Enjolras said bitterly, his eyes beseeching, “How on earth could it make me better then them?”

Combeferre obviously settled, talking things out what his definite strong point, its what would make him a brilliant lawyer, “Well obviously with Courfeyrac its all about context. Tell what the first thing you felt when you saw Grantaire?”

Enjolras desperately racked his brain trying to remember, “Shocked, I think. Because he looked so thin and cold. I just wanted to help him.”

“So not arousal? Not horny? You didn’t want to take him to your apartment and fuck him despite him being almost frozen?”

Enjolras reared back, shocked at the crude words coming out of his normally polite to a fault best friend’s mouth, “No, of course not! I mean of course I noticed him, in an aesthetic sort of way. I mean I noticed how attractive he was when we approached him.”

“But it was completely objective?” Combeferre said, his light blue eyes intent on Enjolras’ face, behind his glasses. 

“Of course it was! I was there to work, not find company.” 

“There you are.” Combeferre said satisfied, sitting back, as if that explained everything.

“There what is, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well that’s what the john’s would have felt seeing him standing by that lamppost. Heck that’s what Courfeyrac felt - which we’ve forgiven him for so no going back on that,” He added hastily, “But no, objectively you were like ‘attractive guy’ but because of what you were there to do you felt more concerned for Grantaire’s safety and life, I think that makes you incredibly different to the johns that pick him up.”

Enjolras conceded that point, bloody Combeferre and his great lawyering skills, “But what about the others that tried to help? What if I become just like that and give up on him?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, “When the hell have you ever given up on anything ever? Jesus, you got knocked back so many times for that free fountains proposal for the park that even I thought you were going to chuck it in. But no, you just kept amending and resubmitting it until it got through a year later. Enjolras you have the will of stubborn bull.”

Enjolras shook his head, “People are different Combeferre. Grantaire has doubts because of prior experience, what makes him think I’m any different. And now with these stupid feelings of mine getting in the way - which he doesn’t return by the way – its just going to complicate things. He’ll just think I’m trying to get into his pants if I ever tell him!”

“Firstly have you forgotten what you did for Jehan and his family? How much better now is his family’s situation because of what you did for them? And Feuilly? How many hours did we put into getting him back on his feet and out of living in his car? Hell Enjolras, this is what we do, and this is what we’re going to do for the rest of our lives, its not some stupid whim we picked up because we were bored rich kids one day. And you’re the most dedicated of all of us, you’re the one that got our heads out of our asses and you’re the one we all look to to get stuff done. Prior experience tells me you’re just as stubborn with people as you are with proposals for the council. Secondly, having feelings isn’t stupid, if anything it makes you more committed, who better to help Grantaire then someone who genuinely cares about him? And I know you Enjolras, you don’t crush easily, hell in the 8 years I’ve known you, you’ve had serious feelings for what, two people?”

Enjolras can feel his face heating up, “Jehan’s brother doesn’t count, I was only 14.”

Combeferre scoffed, and rolled his eyes “Doesn’t count? Hell Enjolras that was possibly the most traumatic stage of my teenage hood and it didn’t even happen to me! First you called a summit crisis meeting because you thought were gay and apparently that warranted a three day conference in order to confirm, and then well, how many books of poetry did you write after that that were dedicated to Jehan’s older brother, Felix?”

Enjolras felt himself, if possible, go redder, “It was very bad poetry and I stopped after we chatted and he said that although he was flattered that perhaps an age gap of 8 years was just a bit too much and that he wasn’t a cradle snatcher, nor did he want to go to jail.”

Combeferre laughed, never failing to enjoy Enjolras’ embarrassment, “And what else did he say?” he prodded, clearly enjoying himself.

Enjolras sighed, “He said I should give him a call when I turned 18.”

“And did you?”

Enjolras looked down, “No, god, I was too embarrassed!”

Combeferre laughed quietly before sobering a little, “And how do you know Grantaire doesn’t return your feelings? I mean you had Felix, the male model, interested when you were young, it cant be mush of a stretch to imagine Grantaire liking you, or at least liking the way you look?”

“I doubt Grantaire’s that shallow, and its also, well we seem to fight every chance we’re within 50 feet of one another. And he hates me.” Enjolras finished morosely.

Combeferre remains curiously silent for the rest of the drive as Enjolras mulls over his words. It was a stupid crush that was all, nothing drastic, nothing for anyone to get excited over. It was true that Enjolras didn’t crush easily, but nothing had ever come of his other two crushes (one because he was too young and the other because the object of his affection was heterosexual) and it would be stupid to think anything would come of this one. Stupid to get his hopes up. 

Enjolras was still considering Combeferre’s words when they pulled up to Grantaire’s spot and were told by a now a touch concerned Tom (who was dressed as a sexy policeman) that Grantaire was, once again a no show to his lamppost. 

With another proposition by Tom politely declined and after Tom dipped his police hat in a gentlemanlike manner, Enjolras and Combeferre drove home empty handed.

When they arrived at Combeferre, Marius and Courfeyrac’s house, Combeferre turned to Enjolras, “Look, forget all the other stuff for the moment but can you let Courfeyrac know you’ve forgiven him soon? Its just that I’m sick of hearing his angsty renditions of My Chemical Romance pounding through the walls at every hour of the day and night when he’s home. I swear if I have to hear one more cried chorus of “I don’t love like I did yesterdaaaaaaaay” I’m going to go in there and murder him myself.”

Enjolras bit his lip in indecision, Combeferre, noting the thaw pressed the advantage, “You know its been hard without the two of you getting along, we’ve got no leader because you’ve been so distracted and well, we’ve got no heart without Courfeyrac. No one to boost everyone’s moods when our petitions don’t make a difference or bake cookies when Jehan’s feeling down, or convince Marius that Cosette might notice him when he volunteers at the rehab centre this week. I mean its Marius, Enjolras its hard enough being around him when he’s in love, its even worse when he’s pining.”

Enjolras finally relented, sighing, knowing his excuses for not forgiving Courfeyrac were beginning to be slightly selfish, “I’ll do it tomorrow. He can come on the Grantaire run with me.”

Combeferre nodded, looking mildly relived, “Good, because poor Marius looks like he’s going to cry everytime ‘famous last words’ comes on too, as, apparently Courfeyrac goes a bit scary and growly when he sings it. Which, of course, means Marius has had to sleep in my room for the past few nights and if I have to have one more slumber party-esque discussion of Dr Fauchelevent poetic competence as a rehab doctor I’m going to move in with you and Jehan. No joke.”

 Enjolras smiled slightly and agreed, once again, to put Combeferre, Marius and Courfeyrac out of their collective misery. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong and that something might have to do with Grantaire. 

 

To be continued.....


	14. Stand in the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okies ladies and jellybabies you'll have noticed (if you commented on the last chapter) that i haven't replied yet but i totally am going to its just that i've just started summer school so everything's a bit crazy at the moment! (****Edit: All comments should be replied to as of now)
> 
> But I will say that i took a few days off writing last week and just read a whole buttload of E/R fics which turned out to be a terrible idea as reading fics by people ten times more talented then you tends to be a dampener on the whole writer confidence thing but you know what made me feel better? All the lovely comments you guys left! It totally kicked me out of my funk, so thank you for that!
> 
> Also, fun fact, this chapter started out as 1800 words and grew into the biggest chapter I've posted for this fic! (which is why it's a tad late as the more words i write the more horrible editing i have to do which always takes me FOREVER!). 
> 
> Also I've started to get all these ridiculous plot bunnies for E/R fics that have made me want to drop everything and write them but i've resisted because i damn well want to finish this one first before i write anything else (but they do include a high school AU, a blind date AU and a private english boys school AU.)
> 
> Anyway, have fun with this! xx

\- Enjolras

 

 

“Look Chief, I really need to speak to you.” Courfeyrac said, bustling into the car and curiously dressed in complete black Enjolras noted, including the backpack Courfeyrac held on his lap.

Enjolras winced at the nickname, “Sorry Courfeyrac, I already forgave you ok? I forgave you ages ago.”

Courfeyrac blinked at him vaguely, “Oh. Well thanks. I mean that’s great. But Combeferre already told me that ast night when the cops were called on us for ‘disturbing the peace’. I don’t think our neighbours appreciated the finer points of a falsetto version of ‘Famous Last Words’.” He said, his face saying clearly that he thought they were idiots for not recognising genius when they heard it, “So Combeferre told me to shut me up so we wouldn’t be fined. But that’s neither here nor there at the moment, I need to speak to you about something else, something much more important. Something about Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac sounded breathless and giddy and excited all at once and Enjolras felt a little concerned as he pulled away from the curb, because when it came to Courfeyrac excited and giddy usually meant he’d done something stupid, illegal, or both. 

“What?”

Courfeyrac grinned at him, then failed to smother his grinning before giving up, “How much do you know about Grantaire? About his past, I mean.”

Enjolras frowned at the red traffic lights in thought, “From what I’ve guessed he’s not exactly had the best childhood. And I think he was verbally abused as a child, at the very least.” Enjolras said finally, unwilling to say anymore to betray Grantaire’s confidence or to impede in Grantaire’s privacy; his stories were his own to tell, not Enjolras’. 

Courfeyrac nodded in assent, as if he had guessed as much, “So, how smart do you think he is?” He said, tapping his fingers on the folder in front of him impatiently, like he was trying to get to the point and Enjolras was being too slow.

“Intelligent? He’s definitely intelligent.” Enjolras said immediately without having to think about it, remembering Grantaire’s quick way with words and sound argument strategy. He almost rolled his eyes at himself, ‘sound argument strategy’? Jesus, he sounded like one of his professors. 

Courfeyrac grinned at Enjolras, “Yeah, he holds his own against you right?”

Enjolras nodded, grudgingly admitting, “Yes. He’s a bit like Combeferre like that.”

Courfeyrac affected a scandalised expression before hitting Enjolras in mock outrage, “Hey! Not like me then?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “You’re never serious! How can I properly argue and debate with you when you burst in giggles everytime I use a word like ‘penal’ or ‘penalize’?”

Courfeyrac laughed, “You know I only laugh because you hate it so much. It only has a little bit to do with the words sounding like penis.”

“How can you laugh when I don’t even say the word but you can say words like penis with a straight face?” Enjolras said exasperated. 

At that, Courfeyrac burst into laughter and Enjolras couldn’t help but twitch his lips into a small smile. He’d forgotten how good Courfeyrac’s presence felt; no one else in their group could make him both frustrated and amused all at the same time. 

Combeferre had been right, Enjolras thought, looking at his friend’s good natured laughing face, Courfeyrac really was their heart and something had been definitely missing without his presence. He was important and despite spending the last four years having to chain him to his desk to make him study for school, it wasn’t like Courfeyrac wasn’t as smart as the rest of them, he just always thought there were better things to be doing then studying for his degree, things like parties. And festivals. And drinking. And if it weren’t for him, none of them would ever do anything else other then study, Les Amis meetings and protests. Also, life would be duller Enjolras concluded his attention caught between the road and his own thoughts. 

After awhile Courfeyrac clamed down and let out a low breath, “It’s good to talk to you again Enjolras and I know we’ve said out peace but I swear I’ve done something to make up for what I did, I promise.”

Enjolras frowned, “You didn’t need to do anything, I blew everything out of proportion and I never should have shut you out, no matter what you did.”

Courfeyrac nodded, “I know that and thank you for saying it, but this, this impossibly crazy thing I have to tell you sort of fell into my lap and there’s no one else I felt comfortable, nor dared to share it with other then you.”

Enjolras was getting slightly worried now, “Fine, what is it?”

Courfeyrac took a deep breath, “But before you get mad or anything and never speak to me for another fortnight or so, please hear me out. Everything that I’m about to tell you I did was for the good of the group and the good of Grantaire, OK?”

“Are you sure it’s a gift if you have to give a disclaimer first?”

Courfeyrac laughed, “Yes! All my best ideas for you guys always have a disclaimer, that’s how you know they’re so awesome that I have to warn you about them beforehand.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “Fine, I can’t promise I won’t get mad but I won’t give you the silent treatment for it, no matter how mad I am.”

Courfeyrac let out a breath as if he had been truly worried and Enjolras, for the first time, felt ashamed of his behaviour of the past couple of weeks. He hadn’t kept a cool head, nor was he able to be objective; what good was he if he couldn’t keep his head in a crisis? And Courfeyrac had been the one that had suffered for far longer then he should have; sweet, happy Courfeyrac who would never do anything intentionally to hurt anyone and who believed in their cause as much as anyone, if not more because of his compassionate nature. Enjolras vowed to make amends for his behaviour. 

Courfeyrac continued, “Well I did some checking up on Grantaire, you know in the past few weeks when you barely acknowledged my presence.”

Enjolras flinched but let it pass, Courfeyrac was allowed a couple of cheap shots, “Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said warningly, “Grantaire doesn’t trust us as it is, how would he feel if we were checking up on him?”

Courfeyrac shook his head, his leg bouncing up and down in anticipation, “I wasn’t thinking about that. I just did it on impulse you know. One moment I was thinking about Grantaire and his past and the next I was thinking that this cities a college city right? We’ve got at least four college campuses here.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras said, unsure of what he was getting at. 

Courfeyrac continued excitedly, “Yeah, so, Grantaire’s about our age right?”

Enjolras nodded, he had guessed as much, “That’s what Joly thinks at least.”

Courfeyrac nodded, his hands gripping the folder, “And he has a wide vocab.” He says, “And he’s intelligent, not just smart, but intelligent. Like well read”

Enjolras fights the strong urge to throttle Courfeyrac if he doesn’t just get to the point and he could tell the expression on his face matches his feelings as he grits out impatiently, ”What are you getting at, Courfeyrac?”.

Courfeyrac holds up his hands in surrender, “Sorry, yes I am getting to it. Anyway so it makes sense that he might have been a college kid right?! Not necessarily an Ivy League, but totally a college kid.”

Enjolras frowns, he had vaguely entertained the idea before, “Yeah that makes sense. It’s surprising given his background and current profession but not improbable, less probably for Ivy League. But why is that so exciting? There are probably hundreds, if not thousands of college drop outs in this city.”

Courfeyrac nods again, “Exactly, right, well I was working in the records room at school yesterday and on a whim I just thought I’d take a gander to see if any Grantaire’s had gone through the system? I mean it’s a one in four shot right? Couldn’t hurt to know more if we could?”

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras hissed, “That’s illegal!”

“It’s not a felony Enjolras, I know that much at least so keep you’re tight little boxer shorts on. Anyway it doesn’t matter now because I found him! There was one Grantaire and his admissions photo matched our Grantaire, right down to the blue eyes and green sweater!” Courfeyrac said, his voice positively bursting with excitement, “You know what this means right? It means that Grantaire was mother freaking Ivy League. Like us.” Courfeyrac says looking both gleeful and in awe, “And you’ll never guess what school he was in.”

“Law.” Enjolras said immediately and Courfeyrac’s face falls in disappointment at Enjolras guessing so quickly. But it hadn’t been much of a stretch Enjolras thought; Grantaire was both quick and cynical, both traits needed for being a good corporate lawyer, maybe not the type Enjolras wants to be, but a lawyer none the less. 

Enjolras was silent for a moment after that as he let Courfeyrac’s news sink in; was it really so surprising? Was Enjolras biased if he had never really considered it a possibility? He had good cause, not once could he remember seeing Grantaire in any of his classes or around campus, but that’s not surprising considering the number of law students that attended and the fact that Enjolras could be pretty narrow focused when he wanted to be, Grantaire must have slipped through the cracks somehow. 

Courfeyrac continued into the silence, “He was majoring in law and fine arts actually. He’s an artist apparently, which doesn’t surprise anyone who’s seen his hands.” Courfeyrac says, shaking his head a little, as if to clear his thoughts, “Anyway, that’s not important right now. What is important is his semester history.”

Enjolras looks over at him as Courfeyrac opens the folder, “Shit, Courfeyrac, I thought you just looked at him file, not steal it!”

Courfeyrac looks at him, a picture of innocence, “It was the only I could think of to convince you that what I’m about to read to you is real.”

“What? What could possibly be in that that I wouldn’t believe?” Enjolras asks in disbelief. 

Courfeyrac just smiles at him mischievously, “Do you want to know or not?”

Enjolras is glad his hands are firmly of the wheel so he can’t lunge over the console and once again attempt to throttle Courfeyrac for his teasing, “Jesus, Courfeyrac, just tell me!”

Courfeyrac smiles evilly before turning back to the folder, “Well, it figures that Grantaire was on a scholarship.” He starts, finally. 

Enjolras nods, not surprised, knowing how astronomical the fees were for their college, and would have felt more bad if he wasn’t completely sure what he was going to use his education for and what kind of doors opened for an Ivy League graduate that would be beneficial for the Les Amis. 

Courfeyrac continues, “But what doesn’t figure is that he won the very law scholarship that your family founded and sponsored.”

Enjolras blinks, that IS surprising, “But that’s for 4.0 GPA’s and higher. It’s practically made for the highest score in the state.”

Courfeyrac smiles as he looks down at the file, “Yeah and Grantaire’s GPA was above 4.0 and was almost at a 5.0 because of his APA classes bumping it up. He even got in the school district paper.”

“A 5.0. No one got a 5.0 except for Combeferre.” Enjolras says, his voice a little faint. 

Courfeyrac looked at him askance, “Enjolras, he scored 2300 in his SAT’s. That was higher then Combeferre, then all of us actually. There was even talk of getting his IQ officially tested.”

Enjolras reels, Combeferre was the most intelligent person he knew, well until now that is, “What happened?” He demands, “Why isn’t he still there. The scholarship is for a full degree, housing and books included, it’s one of the most expensive in the country. What happened?”

Courfeyrac frowned down at the files in his hands, “Looking at his records, Grantaire absolutely fucking aced his first semester. And I mean literally, he didn’t score lower then a 98% for each and every class.”

Enjolras silently impressed, those hadn’t been easy tests either, even Combeferre had been caught out by how hard they had been, ‘weeding out the weak’ Courfeyrac had called it when many of their fellow students had failed and had had to redo them. 

Courfeyrac continues, “Enjolras, his average score was better than yours and Combeferre’s. And on his transcript there’s a red flag put there by Dr Javert and a comment that said “look out for this one, has the potential to be the finest legal mind of his generation”. And you remember how much of a jackass that guy was.”

Enjolras was dumbfounded, indeed he knew how much of a jackass Javert had been having butted heads with him previously in tutorials and lectures, “What year was this?”

“2011. That was our second year Enjolras, the guy probably wasn’t in any of our classes. Can you beleive we didn’t even notice that the smartest guy in the classroom, hell the whole school, wasn’t one of us?”

Enjolras agreed, how stupid and ignorant they had been back then, “What happened to him?”

Courfeyrac looked back down with a grimace, “Well he kind of tanked, the records for the second semester showed almost nil attendance and barely any assignments handed in. And because of that he lost his scholarship and he never re-enrolled.”

Courfeyrac looked up, his face shining, “But you can’t fake those first semester results, Enjolras. The guy’s practically a legal genius. One of his first papers written completely decimated any argument put in place for the jury system and by decimated I mean obliterated completely. Completely dismantled, I’ve never read anything like it, ever. That shit was even publishable, a first year law student’s paper was publishable. And it’s our Grantaire.” Courfeyrac says, his voice saturated with awe and admiration, and Enjolras hates himself a little for the spike of jealousy that stirs in him at Courfeyrac’s fervent appreciation of Grantaire.

Courfeyrac continues, grinning, “And this is what you’ll love the most, but apparently his participation in moot court was ‘unforgettable’. Professor Fantine said, and I quote, “It is both the booby prize and the opportunity of a lifetime to moot against Grantaire. Gaining only one point against him is deemed a job well done. Grantaire’s quick wit and quicker intellect could persuade a monk to drink. His unshakeable arguments are as legally sound as they are impressive to watch. From the quiet and seemingly unassuming young student hides the trap setting, quicksilver, cynical mind of an established barrister. One of which we have not seen for a very long time. Only one student can match him in sheer character on the moot court floor, and who’s unfortunately on another moot court rotation. But nether the less, Grantaire and Enjolras would have made a fine pair, squaring off against each other in a battle of wits; a performance, I’m sure, would be unmatched to anything we’ve ever seen.”

Enjolras is gratified to hear his own name in Professor Fantine’s comments as she was one of his favourite professors in second year, but continues to be dumbfounded, letting Courfeyrac excitedly continue, “There’s even talk in here of putting him into international moot competitions against other universities. A first year law student in international competitions? That’s unheard of Enjolras!”

Indeed it was, Enjolras thinks rubbing his head as he drives through the dark city streets. But only one question seems to stick in his mind, “How on earth didn’t we know of him?”

Courfeyrac frowns and looks down at his notes, “Well from the looks of it he didn’t really big note himself, at all actually and wasn’t a big participator in lectures or the law society. Plus his moot court rotation was different to ours and its not like law students are ever willing to talk about getting beaten on the moot court floor, so. He must have kept it to himself and kept to himself. And, god you know how many of the guys we go to school with are jackasses about scholarship kids, he probably wanted to keep a low profile. Plus, Enjolras, we were pretty wrapped up in ourselves I mean it wouldn’t have been like we would have ignored him or anything, don’t beat yourself up for that as well.”

Enjolras conceded that, unless a scholarship kid (someone like Grantaire) made himself or herself known, they were practically invisible. It shamed him that he had been, if not an active member, but at least a participant in the sort of privileged thinking that pervaded expensive colleges that ignored anyone without money or prestige. 

“Who else knows about this?”

“What, about Grantaire being a genius? Just you, me and our legal professors apparently.”

“Ok.” Enjolras said finally, his head still spinning from the information that Grantaire was at school with them and they may have crossed paths before, “lets keep it that way alright? I have a feeling Grantaire wouldn’t want this general knowledge.”  
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I mean if it were me? I’d want everyone to know. But that’s because I almost failed first year.” Courfeyrac says before looking up and grinning, “I’ll tell you what though, Combeferre’s going to be well pissed he’s had the ‘finest legal mind’ of our generation right under his nose and not even gotten him to volunteer down at legal aid!”

No doubt about that, Combeferre was constantly pestering them to spend more time down there, “Probably” Enjolras concedes, then something strikes him, “What about Grantaire’s art? What did he do?”

Courfeyrac looked down at the notes, “He had to fight the scholarship people for the double degree, but he specialised in sculpture, apparently. But there aren’t any pictures or anything, but it does say here that his ‘post modern recreation of the classics for the technology drenched new world” were pretty inspiring. He had a few pieces in the art show and his own showcase. That’s really good for a first year art student.”

Sculpture and law, somehow, despite everything, it seemed to fit Grantaire completely Enjolras thought. He was both poetic and passionate as well as pragmatic and matter of fact. It makes Enjolras wonder if Grantaire’s cynicism was born from his current situation, his history or simply his personality. 

Courfeyrac put the folder back into his backpack before looking up expectantly and rubbing his hands in anticipation, “So we doing some covert work tonight? I wore all black just for it. Do you think I need a balaclava? I have one in my bag. What about a long frame camera? Maybe a knife?” He asks, tugging on black gloves.

Enjolras eyeballs him sideways, “No, we’re just checking to see if he’s there. He hasn’t been lately and now I’m kind of worried about him.”

Courfeyrac looks faintly disappointed as he puts the balaclava in his hand back into his bag, “Maybe he had holidays because of Christmas? Oh, hey that reminds me, you coming to New Years? We’re going to start at ours and then head out to the bay for the fireworks. And this year you NEED to come! It’s no fun without you.”

“Firstly I’m not sure if people in Grantaire’s profession can afford to take holidays and secondly, yes I’ll come, we’ve got Care early in the evening but we should be done by then.” Courfeyrac looks at him in surprise and Enjolras rolls his eyes impatiently, “And I’m only saying yes now because I know you’ll just harass me with stupid pranks until I do say yes.”

“Great! Balhorel’s got us on the list of this great new club, apparently he knows the bouncer or something, should be fun.”

Ugh, Enjolras hated clubs, too noisy, too much alcohol and he always got hit on by semi inebriated college guys and girls who usually didn’t take ‘no’ very nicely. At least Bossuet would be there to take care of anyone who got too persistent, Enjolras had no qualms about handing over people that had no concept of consent to his burly friend to get rid of. 

As they drove through the darkened streets Enjolras kept on the lookout for a dark curly head in a green sweater and inwardly swore when Grantaire, again, wasn’t at his lamppost. Instead, in his place, was Tom. He was dressed in some sort of schoolboy outfit, complete with tie and crooked glasses and braces, in other words he was a paedophilic wet dream and Enjolras felt distantly dirty just looking at him. 

Enjolras pulled up, “Tom,” He said dipping his head in greeting.

“Enjolras! How you doing?” Tom said excitedly before looking down to demurely examine his nails, “Like my outfit?” he said, shyly looking at Enjolras and back down to his pink sparkly fingernails again. 

Enjolras coughed uncomfortably, “Ah, yes. It’s very nice.”

Tom’s head snapped up and beamed, “Thanks! I wore it just for you!” He said happily and Enjolras ignored the choked laugh from next to him.

“Thanks? But, uh, why/”

“Oh, well, you kind of remind of my really strict 8th grade English teacher, Mr Mabeuf, so here’s me being a naughty little boy for you Enjolras! I think I need a spanking.” Tom said laughing. 

Enjolras felt his ears redden and Courfeyrac burst into laughter beside him. “Uh, no, not tonight thanks Tom. But you look great.”

Tom look mollified by the statement before craning his neck to look at Courfeyrac, “What about your friend there? Hey cutie, need a naughty little schoolboy to spank?” He said chirpily whilst smacking his tiny little bottom. Tom, Enjolras noticed, seemed to manage to both be adorable and slightly obscene at the same time, it was quite impressive if it weren’t slightly indecent. 

Courfeyrac’s laughter ceased almost immediately and he shifted uncomfortably, shooting a half pleading, half embarrassed look at Enjolras before answering, “Ah. Thanks Tom. You look great, you really do. And I’m sure there will be someone who’ll truly appreciate you tonight but that won’t be me, unfortunately.”

Tom pouted and Enjolras let out an inward sigh of relief, because as it happens a recently bisexual single Courfeyrac was a dangerous entity to both men and women. He wondered vaguely whether he should warn anyone. 

“Any news of our quarry?” Enjolras asked when he was sure Courfeyrac next to him had gotten himself under control.

Tom shook his head, his pretty face turning worried, “I asked around but no one’s seen him at all. I mean he’s taken a few days off before but never for this long and never without telling one of us.”

Enjolras tried not to let his disappointment show, he was getting desperate; his fear that something drastic had happened to Grantaire became more concrete and he cringed when he realised he might have to start looking for Grantaire in places he had been unwilling to consider before; hospitals, morgues and the slums in the poorest areas of the city. Because someone, somehow must have seen him, Enjolras thought as he went to put the car in gear. But suddenly something occurred to him and he stopped for a moment, looking up into Tom’s guileless blue eyes, hesitating slightly before asking, “Tom, how old are you?”

Tom smiled flirtatiously leaning his arm against the car door, “However old you want me to be Mr Enjolras.”

Enjolras bit back a smile at his antics, “Your exact age then.” He said.

Tom looked a little crestfallen, “Oh, I’m 20.”

Enjolras let out a sigh of relief, that wasn’t too young to be doing this was it? 

Courfeyrac piped up next to him, “And how long have you been doing this?”

Tom’s face fell and he counted on his hands, “About 6 years now, I think?”

Enjolras’ face tightened, “How did you get into the business?” He asked carefully, keeping his voice light, not wanting to scare Tom away. 

Tom’s face turned pale under the sparkly make up, “Um, well, I got kicked out of home when I was 14 because Dad found my journal and my love notes to Mr Mabeuf. And so I hitched a ride to the city and when I was walking the streets looking for somewhere to sleep, this guy offered me a place to stay if I did some ‘things’ for him. So I did and then it kind of escalated from pimping me out to his friends, and then he sent me out here to earn back the money I supposedly owed him. But then I put enough money away to rent my own place with Jim and a few others and I got out from underneath his thumb. And now everything I earn goes to me.” He finished, his voice quiet, but proud. 

Enjolras’ voice came out more rigid then he wanted when he asked, “Who was this guys name, the guy that ‘saved’ you?”

“Oh, yeah, it was Montparnasse! I still see him time to time; he’s always trying to get back in my pants. But they’re my own now, you see? I earn my own money so I get to choose who I want in my pants.” Tom said firmly, hands on his hips. 

Enjolras’ fears were confirmed, he did not like this Montparnasse character one little bit and was starting to suspect he may have something to do with Grantaire’s disappearance, “Thanks Tom. Thanks for telling us that. Here’s my card, give me a call if you see either of them about ok? Just a quick phone call. Is that ok? Also if you ever want help from us, we run reintegration programs, adult education, drug and alcohol rehab and can provide support and housing if you need it.”

Tom nodded enthusiastically (whether that was at helping Grantaire or the help offered to him, Enjolras wasn’t sure) “Yeah sure Enjolras! Thanks for looking out for Grantaire so well. He’s not like us you know, he’s not meant to be out of the streets like this, he’s too good for it. Too smart. Like you.”

Enjolras looked at Tom’s earnest face knowing that he truly believed that, and said firmly, his eyes never leaving Tom’s, “Whoever told you that is wrong. You are all too good for it, Tom. No one deserves to get kicked out of his or her own home so young, for anything, and no one deserves to have to walk the streets like this. Absolutely no one. Please, please call us if you want help, Ok?”

Tom’s earnest expression turned into a small sad smile, “Careful Enjolras, you’re starting to sound like Mr Mabeuf, and he couldn’t save me either, not all of us deserve to be saved.”

Enjolras looked at him for a moment, the defiant expression on his face belying the vulnerability he saw when he looked at Tom. But in the end he could only thank Tom for his time and leave, sometimes there was only so much you could do and that frustrated the hell out of Enjolras.

The car was silent on their way home, only to be broken by Courfeyrac 5 minutes in, “Is he going to be alright do you think?” He asks, his voice tight.

Enjolras sighs, “I gave him our card and we can only hope he uses it. But if can believe anything of what Grantaire’s taught us it’s that you can’t force people to get help. And some people just don’t want it either.”

Courfeyrac sighed sadly and he looked out the window bleakly. And once again Enjolras felt helpless, the Cause was one thing but the practicalities of human nature were harder for him to swallow, and as much as he wanted to help there was only so much he could for the individual that had been the hardest lesson to learn with Grantaire at least. 

This silence between him and Courfeyrac continued for a few blocks before Courfeyrac’s face brightened as he turned it toward Enjolras, “Oh I’ve got more news for you. I’m taking Jehan on a date next week.”

What? Enjolras raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”

Courfeyrac laughs Enjolras expression, “Don’t worry Enjolras, I’m not out to corrupt your precious Jehan, we’re only doing it for a test run, he thinks he might feel more comfortable if he goes with someone he knows first before going on a real date with someone he you know, likes like that.” He said his voice dimming slightly. 

Enjolras tried to hide his relief but doesn’t do it very well as Courfeyrac catches the expression on his face. But instead of being offended, Courfeyrac just smiles at him a little sadly and a little wearily, “Am I really that lowered in your eyes Enjolras? Would it really be such a bad thing if it were real? I mean I’d hoped I had earned your trust and forgiveness back, but maybe not so.” He finishes bitterly, his once joyful and dancing eyes shuttered and his face pale.

Enjolras wants to bash his own head against something, he wouldn’t have done any less to someone who had insulted his friend and made him look like that, so defeated and exposed, but for it to be Enjolras that did it? Supposedly one of Courfeyrac’s best friends? He feels horrid, “God, Courfeyrac, its not that ok? It really isn’t and I get how hard a time for you this must be. It’s just that I feel stupidly protective over Jehan. But, I mean, I think it’s a great idea, if only to get Jehan more comfortable around guys, he needs to know that not everyone is horrible and hateful and out to get him. You are like one of the best people I know so I think you would be perfect to ease Jehan into the world of dating.”

Courfeyrac beams at him, his earlier melancholy gone and Enjolras is relieved Courfeyrac doesn’t hold a grudge, “It’s going to be great, you know? I’ve booked this really nice restaurant and I’m going to pick him up and we’re going to talk about all sorts of things, like who pays and how to tell if a guys a douchebag or not by the way he treats the waiter and what to wear. It’s going to be brilliant!” He finishes and Enjolras feels stupid for doubting his intentions, Courfeyrac was a truly good person and Enjolras can’t believe he ever persuaded himself otherwise. 

“And you can do this? With what, 3 weeks of experience of knowingly being bisexual?”

Courfeyrac smiles, “It’s all about adjusting parameters and who knows more about guys then another guy? Trust me, its going to be great and Jehan will walk out of there with a new perspective on men. Or at least men that aren’t his family and friends. ” 

Enjolras doubted that, but he didn’t want to do anymore to dampen Courfeyrac’s enthusiasm so he let it slide, as more sobering thoughts were playing on his mind, his instincts still telling him that something was very wrong with Grantaire, but did he trust them? Did he trust himself when it came to Grantaire when all signs pointed to Enjolras being incapable of being objective about the guy? Hell, he’d frozen out one of his best friend for 3 weeks because he had been jealous of nothing that had actually happened. So maybe he was just being overdramatic, letting his feelings cloud his judgment. But the question remained, could he trust his gut feeling when it came to Grantaire? Enjolras wasn’t so sure anymore, he just hoped his instincts were wrong. 

 

 

Tbc…


	15. All rose, no thorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg you dont even want to know how many rewrites i did of this chapter! (I think like only 30% of the original chapter is in here!) and then i finally stopped fiddling with it and decided to just POST ALREADY BECAUSE THE CHILDREN ARE GETTING RESTLESS FOR MORE EXR LOVING!!! Haha anyways i also got really sick during the middle of my writing so theres another reason this chapter is unforgivably late.
> 
> Ugh and you guys are all so nice about it when you want updates and i felt so bad about being so late (but i did like all the lovely nice things you all wrote - like i seriously blush and make tiny pleased dinosaur noises whenever i get a nice comment or review omg you guys don't even know!)
> 
> Also replies for comments posted on the last chapter will be written within the next few days! Hold tight!
> 
> So please, read on >>>>>
> 
> (also, over 300 kudos?????? what the hell even you guys. i never imagined getting over 150/ like seriously that is just the best!!)

Enjolras

 

 

The club was packed as Enjolras gingerly made his way over to his friend’s table being jostled back and forth by writhing bodies in various contortions as he tried desperately not to spill the drinks in his hands. Twice he had jerked from the wandering hands of several dancers as he wound his way through them, before slumping gratefully into his end seat next to Courfeyrac.

“How’d you go?” Courf yelled in his ear before downing some sort of horrifying bright pink drink with an umbrella he had made Enjolras order for him.

“Better then last time. Only two propositions and I don’t think anyone grinded on me.” Enjolras yelled back placing his cranberry juice gingerly on the sticky table. 

Courfeyrac shook his head and laughed, muttering “that’s a shame” into his drink before leaning back, his arms over the back of both their seats and surveyed the club like a king might survey his kingdom. 

“You know what’s kind of great about being bisexual Enjolras? You have such a wider pool of potential hook-ups to choose from.”

Enjolras frowned because despite Courfeyrac’s boastful words his tone sounded more bravado then it sounded sincere. His eyes flickering to the opposite side of their table more often then it strayed on the half naked men and women on the dance floor. 

“Well I wouldn’t know now, would I?” Enjolras shot back eyes surveying the dance floor with disquiet.

Courfeyrac laughed again and whispered, “Is that because you’re only Grantaire-sexual these days?”

Enjolras took a breath and looked down at his drink and Courfeyrac grimaced, subdued immediately by Enjolras reaction. 

Enjolras had become even more frantic for the past couple of days since his and Courfeyrac’s fruitless search. He had even considered filling in a missing persons report but he had no evidence to suggest Grantaire had gone missing since not turning up at his hooker’s corner wasn’t really enough evidence to support a missing persons report or a murder investigation. Enjolras’ stomach rolled at the thought of both. 

And, although they didn’t say anything, he was aware that both Courfeyrac and Combeferre were convinced that Grantaire was just avoiding Enjolras.  
Enjolras had considered it a possibility and he would have agreed (as much as that shrivelled something inside of him) if it weren’t for his encounters with Tom the prostitute. 

Something had struck him uneasy in his encounters with the guy. Especially when Tom had mentioned Montparnasse and his subsequent ‘dealings’ with prostitutes. So if this Montparnasse was Grantaire’s landlord then there was no telling what role he may have played in his disappearance, especially if Grantaire hadn’t had the money to pay rent on time. 

Enjolras had even gone back to Tom to ask for more information on Montparnasse, but, when questioned, Tom had promptly whitened underneath sparkly makeup (apparently he was a fairy that night) and firmly warned Enjolras off Montparnasse, looking visibly shaken as he did so. Seeing Tom looking so shook up had resolved Enjolras’ anger and suspicion about the man even more (also something about the young looking kid had made Enjolras uncharacteristically protective. Maybe that had been part of Grantaire’s influence on him but it was hard to tell.) 

After his unproductive meeting with Tom, Enjolras had moved on to his second most valuable source of information. Marius.  
Yes, Marius. Whose grandfather happened to be the police commission for the city. 

Anyway so Enjolras ‘asked’ Marius chat to some of his police buddies and apparently Montparnasse was a pretty shady character who had never technically been arrested, but was definitely on the radar for involvement in drug trafficking, underage sex trafficking and practically every other underhanded and horrific area of criminal activity. He had even been connected to The Thenadier family, who was practically this cities version of the Mafia as well as showing strong links to the crime syndicate, Patron-Minette. Frustratingly the police had nothing to go on actually arresting the guy, no evidence and no reason for a warrant to search his house.

He was, apparently, also pretty intelligent and by all accounts a master manipulator that had so many fall guys that the police were yet to get an accurate description of him. 

Enjolras had even called in half a dozen favours to check the hospitals and morgues for any john doe’s matching Grantaire’s description and had been almost weak with relief when he had gotten no matches on a 5”7 Caucasian with dark curly hair and blue eyes. One favour of which had been from Marius who had reported back white and shaking from the depths of the hospital he volunteered/worked at. 

Marius was proving to be more useful then one might suspect on first meeting him.

Enjolras had even taken up to driving around other ‘seedier’ parts of town, or at least that what Courfeyrac called them, and asking around for anyone matching Grantaire’s description. 

What he had found had made him even more concerned. Once Enjolras had thought Grantaire’s living conditions had been severe, but, like Grantaire had said, his was nothing compared to the sights that assaulted Enjolras’ eyes when he was searching the seedier districts of town. It wasn’t like the statistics weren’t shocking enough, but statistics had nothing on seeing the real hurt, pain and poverty that drenched these areas of town and the people that scraped a living there. On more then one occasion he had happened upon prostitutes with black eyes and what he had suspected were bruised and broken extremities. On any mention of hospital on his part was met with disbelieving laughter, “Honey you think I got insurance or money for places like that? I got two kids living in a shithole and another one on the way, I can’t afford to miss a night of work, not even for someone as pretty as you.” All Enjolras could do was hand out cards for Combeferre’s legal aid office and the sexual health clinic Joly worked at, incredibly frustrated that he couldn’t do more, that anything hadn’t been done before and that he had never been more proactive about things like this. 

If anything he was even more grateful to Grantaire for kicking his butt on such an obvious area of need in the city that simply wasn’t being met. They lived in the 21st century in a first world country and Enjolras still saw young children (who should be in school) running the streets dressed in little better then rags and people living in what could only be described as glorified slums. He saw sex workers so drugged up they could barely communicate with him, one boy in particular Enjolras had only glanced at who had looked no older then 15, his eyes dead and haunted and his body and arms marred with track marks and bruises, but had disappeared before Enjolras could go back there, and do what? He had no idea but he realised now why Grantaire thought of him and the Les Amis as kids playing at charity. The government had no support services for these people on a widespread platform, for the individual yes, but nothing to combat the incredible inequity and poverty he saw and then what was the Les Amis doing about it? In fact anything they could do for these people, Enjolras realised, would be little more then a band aid. What was really needed was widespread political reform that gave areas like these public schools, free clinics, a greater police presence as well as public housing and the list went on. Instead of treating the symptoms of the issue what needed to happen was a break in the cycle that left so many in poverty.

Not everyone was like Grantaire who had had the opportunity to win a scholarship because Enjolras knew for a fact his families scholarship usually went to well connected, still smart, but usually well connected and rich kids. The fact that Grantaire’s GPA had been high enough for them to overlook his lack of social standing had been an incredible feat in itself. But then look at what a lack of support had done? Look at what had happened when Grantaire had made one mistake and it was all taken away from him. One slipup and Enjolras’ family had pulled the plug on the schooling of a sharp young mind simply because he had been a young poor college student with no means to access support services that he really needed. 

Enjolras suspected untreated depression and addiction even though Grantaire had not out rightly told him so. And Enjolras wondered how different it might have been if Grantaire had been given access to ways to help and combat his issues. In fact Enjolras was certain that if Grantaire had in fact received the support he should have been given then they would have met much earlier then they did. Someone like Grantaire wouldn’t have been able to get under Enjolras’ radar for too long especially if he was as good as their professors said he was. In fact Enjolras would have welcomed an equal (if not better) opponent on the moot court and Combeferre probably would have given his right hand to get the chance to work with someone like Grantaire at the legal aid office. 

But all this endless speculation or “pining” Courfeyrac had taken to calling it was nothing if Grantaire was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Enjolras tried to convince himself that the only reason he was so desperate to save him was because of the good he could do as a member of the Les Amis but he knew he was kidding himself. 

If he was only interested in Grantaire’s ability to help them then he shouldn’t feel the fury or agitation he did at not knowing where he was, or the dread in his stomach that something was horribly wrong. Or the stupid butterflies he got at remembering Grantaire’s smile (as cynical and jaded as it was) or the ridiculous sweat he broke out in everytime he remembered Grantaire’s bared torso (this one he was exceptionally ashamed at, how could he have that sort of reaction when he knew he sexual violence that Grantaire had been the victim of as “consensual” as it was?). 

Jehan had become increasingly worried as Enjolras had gotten more invested in his search for Grantaire. But strangely enough Enjolras wasn’t feeling the same overwhelming feelings of anxiety that had plagued him back when he was a senior. In fact everything seemed more clear and crystallised, and his mind sharper and motivated. Courfeyrac once said that what made a real leader was their ability to think clearly in times of great stress, and Enjolras finally felt like he was achieving that. His body and mind, once caving under enormous stress, was now working on all cylinders. 

So there he was, sitting in a loud boisterous club on New Years Eve no closer to finding Grantaire then he had at the start. And suddenly every man man Enjolras saw on the street with dark curly him made him turn his head; every trail of cigarette smoke made him itch to see who was smoking and every loud mocking laugh made his heart beat a tiny bit faster. 

So after all his fruitless searching and near constant stress every mention of Grantaire’s name made him flinch and Courfeyrac wisely dropped the subject. 

The darkness of the club wasn’t any better, every male figure made him want to desperately search every face he could every slim body dancing sinuously to the music made him itch to go back out onto the streets and find him. But he didn’t, he stayed put for his friends sake, who seemed to be enjoying themselves. It was only Jehan opposite him, that looked as mildly as uncomfortable as Enjolras felt, tugging at the sleaves to his long sleaved tie dyed green shirt (which seemed a strangely mild for his usually bright clothed friend) and flinching slightly everytime he made eye contact with someone outside their table. 

Courfeyrac had started chatting excitedly to Combeferre about something or other and Joly and Bahorel were doing shots of, what smelt like, lighter fluid but was possibly tequila. Bossuet and Marius seemed intent on wiggling their butts on the dancefloor with as many partners as possible (Marius, as always, keeping a scrupulous distance between his nether regions and any others he seemed to bump into – in fact his preferred dancing style seemed to be made up of some exuberant arm flailing combined with interesting kick moves that made sure he was given a wide birth on the dancefloor, Bossuet wasn’t much better and was complimenting Marius’ exuberance with what he described as the “sinuous robot” which seemed to be a cross of the robot and dirty dancing).

It wasn’t til Feuilly arrived that Enjolras found himself warming up to the night. 

Feuilly’s dark curling auburn hair was kept back with one of his colourful bandanna and he had swapped one of his trademarked threadbare t-shirts with a green plaid shirt. His arrival was met with shouted drunken welcomes from the table and he gave them all a blindingly white smile in return seeming to quickly realise that any reply he made would get lost in the swirling, beating techno music that thumped around them.

He slipped, hesitantly, into the seat beside Enjolras and Enjolras found himself settling, perhaps for the first time in the older mans presence and allowed himself to smile at Feuilly. 

Feuilly seemed to look simultaneously relived and gratified by the welcome as it was safe to say the two had an uneasy relationship, Enjolras knowing full well that he was the cause of it. Crushes made him awkward and distant. And he had had the most awful crush on Feuilly ever since he had engaged him in an enthusiastic debate at a soup kitchen about the concept of nationality, or perhaps whether the concept even had meaning in a post modernist, globalised world. Feuilly was definitely on the side of meaning, explaining his Polish heritage and using it as a sound defence against Enjolras’ own argument in favour of ‘global citizenship’. Enjolras had practically shivered at the rational and coherent argument of a self-professed high school drop out. 

That had been a year and a half ago and the two had been yet to be at ease with each others company as they had that day. A fact of which grated on Enjolras almost as much as FOX news did.

“I see you’re the only one who’s going to keep his head tonight.” Feuilly rumbled in Enjolras’ ear. 

“Yes, well, someone has to take care of them when there’s inevitable tears and fistfights and Marius saying something unforgivable about Courfeyrac’s hair again.” Enjolras replied, smiling at the memory (which had incidentally led to some highly awkward stumbling apologises on Marius’s part the next morning).

Feuilly laughed and took a sip of his beer, his warm calloused hands making condensation run down the glass, “You’re a good friend to them. Better then they deserve anyway.” 

“But not to you though.” Enjolras answered, not meeting Feuilly’s eyes as he scanned the dance floor ignoring the flash of dark curling hair he spied and the resulting thump of his heart. 

He felt Feuilly stiffen beside him before Enjolras heard him sigh, “Look, I know things haven’t always been that great between us and I swear I’m not trying to steal your friends or anything. I’m just grateful to be apart of a family again, you know?”

Enjolras looked up in bewilderment, “I never thought you were trying to steal my friends. Why on earth would you think that?”

Feuilly shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hands making swirls on the glass in his hand like one might do in the fogged bathroom mirror, “Ah well, although you helped me out a lot with stuff, after our first meeting you kind of always acted weird around me. I mean I know you’re not all fuzzy and warm or anything, it’s not in your nature. But I kind of felt like you gave me the cold shoulder whenever I spoke to you. So I asked Combeferre about it and he said that you had trouble expressing yourself properly and it was nothing I had done, but that it was more your own issues. So I just figured you didn’t like me hanging with your friends. And I get it, I do. I just hope we could bury the hatchet a bit you know? I know how much your friends think of you, as I do as well, so maybe we could be friends? Or something?”

Enjolras felt himself redden with embarrassment, he truly hadn’t known that Feuilly had made that assumption about his own behaviour, if he had known this was what Feuilly thought was the reason Enjolras would have explained himself so much earlier.’

“Uh, well, it wasn’t that. I mean it was never about my friends at all. I mean I’m not sure if being possessive like that is really sensible seeing as they adopt anyone and everyone they like into the group as their best friends with or without my blessing.”

Feuilly frowned, “Then what was it?”

Enjolras averted his eyes and sighed and took a sip of his cranberry juice, “It’s just really embarrassing and Combeferre was right when he said it was my own issue.”

Feuilly smiled his wide crinkly smile, the one that used to make his heart rush, “OK, spit it out. I mean my heads already spinning because I thought that the guy that everyone loves and looks up to, hated me doesn’t actually hate me at all.”

Enjolras took a breath, “God Feuilly, I never hated you, not in the least. I mean it was the opposite really. I might have had a ginormous high school crush on you, and like the stupid idiot I was I never said anything and I acted completely weird around you because I never knew how to act. Surely you’ve already realised that I’m not exactly emotionally intelligent?”

There was a stunned silence for a moment before Feuilly chuckled nervously, but at the stricken look on Enjolras’ face, he stopped abruptly, clearing his throat, “Its just that, really? You had a crush on me?”

“Yes I did OK? And I knew I could never tell you back then because you were straight and I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me or the group and leave. I knew how much everyone liked you and I would hate it if I made you uncomfortable in any way,” Enjolras said quickly, like ripping the Band-Aid off so it wouldn’t hurt as much. 

A quick sneak peek of Feuilly’s face showed that he looked, well, to be honest he looked a little bit awed, as if it had never ever occurred to him in the slightest that Enjolras issue with him was that he was weird around the people he liked. Or, you know the two people he had ever like romantically, or was that three now? Goodness Enjolras was turning into some sort of Casanova! He couldn’t keep up!

Enjolras rushed on, “I mean I can tell you now because I’m over it so you don’t have to worry, but back then it was kind of hard to deal with and it didn’t help that Courfeyrac made fun of me endlessly for it.”

“Oh, I can imagine that.” Feuilly smirked, sipping his drink.

There was a slight pause in the conversation and Enjolras, unable to look at Feuilly after his confessions, rested his eyes on the dance floor of which Courfeyrac had now joined Bossuet and Marius doing, what could only be described as some sort of low to the floor butt wiggle with a guy with dreadlocks who was doing it way better then him. Enjolras spied Marius, whose hair was now plastered with sweat, and Bossuet in the middle of a group of dancers who were jumping up and down with their fists raised, in time to the song that was high on bass. To his eyes it all looked a little terrifying. 

After a moment he dragged his eyes back to Feuilly who was now regarding Enjolras with a smile, “You’re taking this very well,” Enjolras said finally, feeling unsettled at the attention, “I mean you’re not going to smile at me now then jump me on the way home because I offended you’re heterosexuality?”

Feuilly looked at him bemused, “I never said I was straight Enjolras. And although I may have considered myself straight before, you guys have taught me a lot about labels and sexuality fluidity over the past year and a half.”

“You’re not straight?” Enjolras asked bluntly.

Feuilly laughed and side eyed Enjolras a touch bashfully; “I can appreciate male beauty enough to find your old crush on me incredibly flattering. Almost to the point that I wish you had spoken up about it a bit sooner.”

Enjolras blinked rapidly for a few seconds not in the least bit ever suspecting that the intelligent, auburned haired muscled beauty next to him was perhaps not as straight as Enjolras thought and may have, in fact, returned his crush. 

It was a revelation of sorts. Enjolras had never considered himself in any way ‘crush-worthy’ before. 

Feuilly drapes an arm around his as Enjolras was still trying to rearrange his worldview, “Hey, no worries Chief, I know it would be all for nothing now, right? I mean this Grantaire guy has got you tied up enough knots as it is, right?”

Enjolras returned his gaze to the table top and nodded reluctantly.

Feuilly hummed as if he suspected as much, tipping Enjolras’ chin up with his forefinger so Enjolras would look him in the eyes, “I think this may be more then a crush then right?” He said gently and Enjolras, unable to distract or hide himself simply nodded again.

“And are your feelings returned?” Feuilly said, taking his hand away.

“I don’t know.” Enjolras whispered, unable to look away from Feuilly’s green crinkled eyes, “I think he might hate me a little, you know, for my life.”

Feuilly hummed again and took a sip of his drink, looking away thoughtfully, “I think you underestimate the effect you have on people sometimes, Enjolras. No, not when you’re up on your campaign box and urging people to vote or getting them to sign a petition, you know exactly the effect you have then. But one on one? When you give someone your complete, undivided attention? I mean I wont lie when I say it’s pretty heady.” Feuilly finished, his ears reddening slightly. 

Enjolras was more surprised by red ears then he was by the statement. Feuilly never got embarrassed, about anything, he was possibly the most easy going guy Enjolras had ever met which, to be honest, was what had attracted him in the first place. That, combined with the guys easy intelligence, and the red hair and calloused hands. 

“Are you saying that Grantaire may feel the same way about me?” Enjolras asked, not hiding the smidgeon of hope that seemed to occupy his words.

Feuilly cradled his beer, “I haven’t me the kid myself but from what I’ve heard and know myself, I mean I think there’s resentment there, not for you, but for your privilege, I mean he’s a smart kid right? So of course he gets pissed when someone who’s had every leg up they could possibly want in the world because of his race, gender and his wealth tries to tell him how to live his life. But there’s also pride at stake for him. I mean look at it this way, Enjolras you’re smart, you’re gorgeous, you’re well educated and you help the poor. Now I don’t know what issues this kid has, but I’m assuming he has quite a few if he’s lived the life that he has, there’s no escaping that. So you put that, on top of everything else and you’ve got a scared kid who’s a hooker because circumstances made him, he’s ashamed of his past, present and possible future and along comes a saviour of sorts who’s everything he believes he’s not. Not only that but you’ve seen him at his most vulnerable, you’ve seen his scars, his bruises, you’ve seen his work and you’ve heard parts of his sad story. Plus he doesn’t know you like we do, so if he did like you in any way he’s either not admitting to himself or he’s keeping it well under wraps because he thinks its hopeless, stupid or both.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment, contemplating the thought that if he’s feelings weren’t currently occupied elsewhere he may have been in trouble, again, with Feuilly. 

There really was something about a well-reasoned argument that kind of did things for Enjolras. 

“It doesn’t matter either way if he’d lying somewhere in a ditch, dead.” Enjolras said finally, his thoughts once again turning over gloomily.

“Hey,” Feuilly said putting his arm over Enjolras shoulder, “Look at me. We’ll find him OK? We will. Someone who knew you wouldn’t be stupid enough to get themselves killed. He’s probably out there right now agonising over whether to ring you guys and get help. I know I was.”

“What changed your mind?” Enjolras said, remembering the friendly but firm dismissal of their help by Feuilly when he had been doing the rounds in the soup kitchen handing out their contact Les Amis cards.

Feuilly said thoughtfully, “Well, in the end I hated living out of my car and making fans for a living. So I swallowed my pride because knew that I didn’t have the support or the finances to get my life back on track. Plus seeing the beautiful charity guy again may have also been a part of that motivation.” He said cheekily, laughing when Enjolras turned pink again, ashamed at the way his actions towards Feuilly had been so misinterpreted. 

“Oh don’t look like that Enjolras. We would never have worked out, I’m way too easy going for you, you would have been bored of me in an hour. Plus, who likes a man with callouses and red hair? I’m nothing like the pretty boys at College who would probably faint at the chance to even talk to you!” Feuilly said putting a hand over his heart dramatically, his eyes wide in mock heartbreak. 

Enjolras knew secretly that that wasn’t true and that he had liked the callouses and Feuilly’s roughness and his hair but he didn’t verbalise it. Feuilly had gotten far too many secrets out of him tonight, and Enjolras hadn’t even been the one drinking. 

Feuilly, kindly, allowed Enjolras some space to think as he turned to engage Combeferre in a spirited discussion about some sport team or other. Something of which Enjolras had no opinion, nor interest in. 

And, after a few minutes of fretting, Enjolras decided to brave the dance floor again and head to the bar. He perhaps might need to drink something a little stronger if all his discussions tonight were going to be as heavy as the one he just had. Confessing embarrassing crushes will make you thirsty for something a little stronger then cranberry juice apparently. 

The dance floor, if possible, is even more tightly packed then ever when he reaches its fringe and after diving back in, Enjolras was suddenly assaulted, once again, by a myriad of groping hands and sweaty bodies. All of which he cringed away from.

Halfway through the dance floor, Enjolras spies a gap in the crowd, freedom!

As he hurries toward it, however, someone grabs hold of him with more intent then the others as hands slide down his torso from behind and grinds a crotch into his butt. 

Struggling to untangle himself, Enjolras suddenly freezes as a sickening familiar voice slurs into his ear, “You look like you need to loosen up buddy. $20 for a BJ?”

Enjolras suddenly whirls around to find himself staring at the man he thought dead.

“Grantaire?” He asks wondrously, his voice lost in the din. But from the moment Enjolras is face to face with the man himself he realises something is wrong. Very wrong as Grantaire’s wild eyes and blown pupils react in familiarity.

“Apollo?” He mouths in uncertainty, his voice lost in the thrumming beats and Enjolras can only nod before Grantaire pitches himself into Enjolras’ arms, desperately clawing at his shirt and rasping, “He's here Apollo, he's here.” Over and over, like a chant, into Enjolras’ ear.

 

 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or did this chapter leave you shipping Enjolras/Feuilly just a little bit? Like i seriously didn't even mean to write it that way, those characters just had some great chemistry!
> 
> Anyways, don't look at me as i tiptoe away from the fact that i left you all with a cliffhanger after leaving you hanging for this chapter for so long!
> 
> *runs and hides away from all responsibility*


	16. For now he shines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG ITS HERE!!! so this is the scene that this whole fic was written around. This was the chapter that i had basically already written in my mind before i even started anything so i really wanted it to be perfect for you guys so it took tons of editing but here it finally is!!
> 
> I'm not going to say much more except i started fancasting my own fic? Is that weird? i dunno, its never happened before but i was just on the internet one day and i came across my perfect Jehan! And i know everyone has their own ideas about what characters look like in their heads so I'll chuck a URL of who i fell in love with for Jehan here -https://40.media.tumblr.com/091f900bbdc8cf4bc9e072353c3920ea/tumblr_n6i3j2VvZq1tdv26to2_500.jpg  
> (sorry i have no idea how to do links) So you can check him out if you want (he's mega cute, like a kitten or a puppy) or not if you think it will ruin your own headcanons! 
> 
> Also I've been really slack about replying to comments, but if you have written one just know that I've loved every bloody single one of them - they're like minnie boosts of caffeine that make me want to write faster and better for you all (also just as addictive as caffeine haha)
> 
> READ ON FEARLESS WARRIORS ~

Enjolras

 

 

Enjolras instinctively clamped his hands around Grantaire’s small biceps, and as a result, Grantaire abruptly stopped struggling, hanging limply onto Enjolras’ sides, his breath heavy and damp on Enjolras neck. 

Enjolras, sensing the very real need to get Grantaire out of there as quickly as possible, desperately searched for an exit out of the swirling and gyrating masses Grantaire’s horrified fear of ‘Him’ infecting him. 

The club, ‘Blue’ as it was most originally called, lights were in fact very blue which might have looked good, but made looking for a way out almost impossible. Which was probably the point.

Suddenly a gap appeared between the crowd and Enjolras flung Grantaire’s arm over his shoulders and prayed (yes, prayed) that whatever was wrong with Grantaire that it didn’t effect his ability to walk. 

Thankfully, Grantaire started shuffling clumsily as Enjolras held him upright, his voice mumbling nonsensically into Enjolras throat. If this had been any other moment, if they had just been two guys in a club dancing pressed up together as close as they were now, the very existence of Grantaire in his orbit would have been exhilarating to Enjolras, but as things seemed to go with them all Enjolras could feel with Grantaire pressed against him as tightly as ever was shock and extreme worry. 

Shock at finding Grantaire so randomly after looking for him for such a long time; and extreme worry because Grantaire was so not all right. 

His skin felt clammy and he didn’t appear to be in complete control of his extremities. Who did he need in a situation like this? In his head Enjolras flicked through his friends like a catalogue. Combeferre? Maybe, he could keep a cool head in a situation like this. Courfeyrac, definitely not. Bossuet? Marius? No and no, too drunk and too much of a liability. Bahorel had been in a few bar fights in his time but Enjolras figured this situation was much worse then a few black eyes. Feuilly? Maybe, but no medical expertise.

Enjolras needed Joly, that’s who. Top of his class med student. Even tipsy he’d know how to help Grantaire.

After breaking free of the dance floor, Enjolras swung around looking for his friend’s table.

But no, as these things go, they were now on the other side of the club from them, the swirling mass of the dance floor an almost impenetrable wall between them and Joly.

No help. So then Enjolras would have to move on to plan B. Getting Grantaire the hell out of the club, especially if ‘the him’ that Grantaire had been so afraid of was still in the club somewhere. 

Enjolras spied the fire exit sign, glowing greenly incandescent like some sort of lighthouse beacon in the incredibly dark and murky depths of the club, from across the floor. 

Enjolras boosted Grantaire flagging form and headed for the exit, ignoring offers of threesomes as he went. Couldn’t these people see that Grantaire needed help? Couldn’t they see that he was in no shape to be involved in any sort of sexual exploits, let alone the physicality needed for a threesome (Enjolras was just guessing, he didn’t know the intimate details of how one worked, obviously)?

Finally Enjolras managed to heave Grantaire out through the heavy security doors and into the biting cold. He spied some still dry cardboard near the dumpster and Enjolras slumped Grantaire onto them against the brick cobblestones. 

Noting the cold Enjolras hastily removed his own red jacket and put in around Grantaire’s shoulder. He also felt Grantaire’s cold pale neck for pulse.

It was sluggish. They needed an ambulance. And quickly.

Except Enjolras hadn’t planned on being away from his groups table for more then 5 minutes and hadn’t thought to take his phone with his wallet. Shit. 

Enjolras was distracted from his self castigating when suddenly there were hands grasping and groping at his belt, fingers clumsy in cold and fumbling with the strap. Grantaire’s unfocused eyes were attempting to narrow in concentration as he inelegantly groped Enjolras through his jeans. The hands, though ungainly, seemed very practiced and Enjolras cursed his body for responding to them. 

“Grantaire, stop, what are you doing?” Enjolras said in a sort of muted shock, catching Grantaire’s hands in his and moving them away from his belt. 

Grantaire’s hands were icy cold and shaking and Enjolras absently attempted to rub some warmth back into them with his own slightly warmer ones. 

Grantaire looked up at him confused, his pupils wide and dark and the whites of his eyes bloodshot, no recognition registering on his slack face, “But I need to make twenty.” He slurred weakly, attempting to break free of Enjolras’ hold. But his movements were sluggish and lethargic and Enjolras, despite not being the strongest of guys, has no trouble keeping Grantaire’s hands above the belt, his own belt, so to speak.

When Grantaire’s face is suddenly illuminated by the streetlight flickering back on, Enjolras finally gets a good look at Grantaire’s face and bites back an exclamation of horror. There is swelling and bruising around his nose but partly covered as if someone had put makeup over it to hide it, but Grantaire’s neck is another matter as bruising handprints cover it from just under his ears to his collar bone. 

The white t-shirt under Enjolras’ jacket is stuck to Grantaire’s body with sweat and god knows what else, but it’s see-through enough for Enjolras to spy even more bruising along Grantaire’s frail white chest and abdomen. And that’s all Enjolras can see in the dim light, god knows what else Grantaire’s clothes are hiding, it had been the case when he had first met him and still made Enjolras sick to the stomach to think about. 

Enjolras tried to gently cradle Grantaire head in his hands to keep it from slumping on his chest once again, unwilling to touch any other part of him in fear of hurting him, “Goddammit Grantaire, what the hell happened to you?”

Grantaire’s eyes finally focus and he looks into Enjolras’ eyes, his voice small, ragged, “Who are you? Are you a john?”

“I’m Enjolras, Grantaire, you remember me? And the Les Amis? Do you remember us?”

Grantaire’s eyes clear and mouth quirks in a ginger half smile, “Apollo?”

Enjolras laughs in relief, never happier to hear that stupid nickname then now, “Yeah Grantaire, Apollo.”

Grantaire’s eyes frowned again, his voice still small, “No”, he said looking down, “It can’t be. Apollo can’t be here. He can’t, he can’t, he wouldn’t…he doesn’t…” he petered off, his head shaking back and forth, his eyes closed again.

Something was very wrong with Grantaire, the blown pupils and the sluggish heart rate suggested drugs but the bruises on his body told a different story to Enjolras. Had he done this to himself? Had he gone on a bender? Why was he soliciting on the dance floor? And who was ‘him’? Had Grantaire gone and got himself a pimp? Why was he so scared of him?

“Grantaire, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Did someone do this to you? Did someone hurt you?” Enjolras asked, keeping his voice level and his eyes steady on Grantaire’s bright blue ones, glittering chemically with whatever’s running through his system. 

Grantaire’s eyes widen, and he shudders, as if he were fighting his own body to pass out, “Enjolras.” He says suddenly his eyes focusing on Enjolras’ for the first time. The expressions on his face a curious mixture of awe, wonderment and fear. 

Enjolras tries not to read too much into that. Bigger things to worry about right now then the state of Grantaire’s feelings for him, if there were any to begin with. 

“Yes, Grantaire, it’s Enjolras. Did someone hurt you? Are you in danger? Is it Montparnasse?” Enjolras asks, acting on his hunch that the slumlord pimp might have had something to do with Grantaire’s disappearance.

Grantaire jerks his head at the mention of Montparnasse and his eyes widen in fear, his mouth opening and closing as he screws his eyes in concentration, very carefully he finally says, “He wants me to get 20. He wants me to get 20 more tonight.”

“Twenty what Grantaire? Did he do this to you? Is he here right now?”

Grantaire’s eyes unfocus again as he starts to mutter, “I have to get 20 johns, 20 tonight because 20 times 20 is 400 and I’ll have enough to pay him back. He sends me to 20 some nights and tonight I found you.” He finishes with his eyes back on Enjolras belt, as if judging whether he can get it open before Enjolras can stop him.

The lucidity and then confusion of Grantaire’s mental state is worrying. Enjolras ponders this as he stands, clenching and unclenching his fist, feeling the familiar righteous anger starting to boil in him, Montparnasse did this to Grantaire, did this and was now pimping him out in the clubs and had done god knows what to him to make him so fearful. And pay him back for what? For drugs? For medical attention? That sick bastard.

Enjolras sighs, half in frustration and half in annoyance as he paces back and forth, unwilling to leave Grantaire alone in the cold but equally unwilling to head back into the club with Grantaire being so ill.

Weighing up the options, Enjolras spins as a noise at the head of the alley distracts him and Grantaire both. The shadows, however, concealing whatever might be there. 

It had sounded like footsteps.

But when nothing ventures out of the dark Enjolras impatiently turns his attention back to Grantaire who’s still eyeing the end of the alleyway like its going to morph into a snake and bite him. His forehead furrowed in apparent thought. 

Enjolras kneels back down again, anger back under control, “Hey Grantaire?” He says gently trying to get Grantaire to refocus back on his face, which Grantaire does, eventually, “Hey buddy, do you have your phone on you?”

Grantaire blinks at him for a moment before averting his eyes and gingerly patting down his pockets, front and back. He comes up empty.

“No, sorry.” He whispers flinching a little at the words before starting to mumble again. It’s a quiet, sort of thoughtful monologue that Enjolras only picks up on when he crouches down beside Grantaire to hear him better. 

‘…You’re so beautiful that sometimes I don’t think you’re even real you know that? It’s like God made the most perfect person in the world and decided that if human kind wouldn’t follow a person like that then they’re truly doomed. But it’s hard you know, it’s hard to be constantly reminded of your own failures by someone so much better then you who has does so much better things.”

Grantaire takes a breath, his eyes on his hands in his lap, before continuing, voice small and vulnerable and Enjolras hates it, hates that anything could ever make Grantaire speak like this, as if nothing is real and Enjolras isn’t there, “And I don’t resent you you’re upbringing there was nothing that you could have done to change it and I get it now, I get why you were given a life of wealth and privilege but such a pure soul. Because anything less would sully it, anything less would have tainted and twisted you and made you ordinary. Like me.”

“Grantaire…” Enjolras starts, not even knowing what he was going to say before Grantaire speaks over him as if he hadn’t heard the interruption, his voice fainter now, “I mean I think I tried to convince myself that you were terrible, it would be easier that way, you know? I think that was the only way I would have considered myself worthy. I mean I can’t be blamed right? For dying for being close to you, I cant be blamed for any of it, I let none of it happen but it did happen, it happened the moment I saw you in that damn coffee shop I knew that if I were to follow anyone to death in this godforsaken world, it would be you. And when it did happen I fought it every step of the way, because I knew that I wasn’t anything more then a charity case for you. What would happen please believe me in this Apollo, I fought him, I tried to run, but there’s something wrong with my knee and my heart feels like its breaking every time I breath or move and I cant stop him when he brings the needle, I am too weak and I never got 20.”

By this time Grantaire has broken out into gasps and sobbing and Enjolras feels completely at a loss to comfort him (Courfeyrac would be much better at that sort of thing but its Grantaire dammit, so he’s going to try).

But he’s distracted once again as he hears footsteps coming out of the gloom. 

Except this time when he looks up, the alleyway isn’t empty, a man steps out of the shadows, and to be honest for a moment Enjolras thinks its Combeferre. 

Except its not, this man has brown highlighted hair instead of dirty blonde and there is none of Combeferre’s characteristic warmth to his face. No, this man has the face of angel but there is nothing angelic about the hard glittering eyes beneath his glasses or the cold smirk playing on his cupid bow lips.

This is a dangerous man.

But Enjolras is used to dealing with dangerous men. 

Grantaire’s sobs stop almost immediately and one look at his carefully blank face confirms to Enjolras that this is the man that did this to Grantaire. This is the notorious Montparnasse. 

Enjolras swallows down his anger, schools his face and straightens up, subtly moving himself directly between Grantaire and the man, a movement that does not go amiss to the man who smirks a little.

“Most gentlemanlike of you Enjolras, but I assure you I am no threat to Grantaire.” He says, his voice a soft purr into the dark, so quiet in the alley Enjolras has to strain to hear him. 

“His injuries indicate otherwise, Montparnasse.“ Enjolras says, feeling a distinct sense of satisfaction at the minute eye twitch of the other mans face indicating that he’d guessed correctly and that Montparnasse was not at all happy about Enjolras knowing whom he was. 

It would take more then meeting Montparnasse in a dark alley to intimidate Enjolras. Because instead of feeling scared that he’s currently standing in front of possibly the most dangerous man in the city, Enjolras’ body and mind seem to settle into a calm, usually only reserved for his speeches and the moot court. He feels it like a blanket, comforting him. There’s something to be said for knowing you’re willing to give up everything for someone you love. 

Whoa, where did that thought come from?

Montparnasse smiles again, but it’s a facsimile of a smile, it’s horrible and terrible all at once and Enjolras fights a shiver, “Ah, but they were all made in good fun, weren’t they R?” He says silkily, giving a small condescending laugh that Enjolras fights not react to. 

Because Enjolras knows what this was to Montparnasse; this was a pissing contest for Grantaire’s affections. Although why Montparnasse would ever think Grantaire would want anything to do with him Enjolras has no idea; all he knows is that he can’t lose, not if the paying price is Grantaire’s life. 

The thought steadies him somewhat and his mind clears again, the belief that he would do anything to save Grantaire makes everything so much easier because suddenly there’s nothing to lose. It’s freeing. 

“Ah,” Enjolras says, carefully keeping his face blank of all emotion, “All in good fun. Did this good fun also include forcing Grantaire to take drugs? Because the ripping track marks on his arms certainly don’t indicate it was done voluntarily.” Enjolras says, deliberately keeping his tone light and teasing, nothing better to psych out a psychopath then to not react to means of manipulation. 

Enjolras knew what he was doing; he had been playing that same game with his own father since the age of 10. And he reckoned his father had few more years of experience of it then this little bit player runt standing in front of him. 

“He was asking for it. Weren’t you baby?” Montparnasse says, directing his question back at Grantaire.

Enjolras swiftly, but subtly moves in to intercept. This was his fight, and his fight alone. He had no doubt Grantaire could hold his own normally against this prick, but when drugged and beaten? Well, even Grantaire had his limits. 

“Grantaire said that he most definitely didn’t.” Enjolras says, voice level, not betraying the disgust he felt.

Montparnasse snaps his attention back to Enjolras and the mask shatters just a little as his eyes narrow, “Ah, this must be the famously perfect Enjolras that my little gutter monkey cant stop talking about. Can’t say I’m all that impressed.” He saws drawing a lingering glance up Enjolras body, “Aren’t bible bashers supposed to be pure and holy? If so, why would you waste your time around a used up old whore like Grantaire?”

Enjolras feels his calm threatening to break but he steadily pulls it back together, reminding himself that all Montparnasse wants is an emotional reaction because then he would have the power. But right now? It’s 50/50. And Enjolras can’t let it tumble Montparnasse’s way. People like Montparnasse are like sharks, the moment they scent blood then it’s all over.

‘The Les Amis is not affiliated with any organized religion. And we spend time with Grantaire because we want to help him.” 

Montparnasse laughs again, the sound grating as it echoes off the alleyway walls, “Help? You want to help him? Help him to what? Get a job? Become a normal person? Settle down and have kids? That’s not going to happen here, Apollo.” He spits the name out like its mold, “This is Grantaire we’re talking about, he’s not meant to be normal, he’s meant to be with me.”

“Every man has his worth and has the right to the life he chooses.” Enjolras says calmly, trying to fight psychopathy with common sense. However Montparnasse, right now, looks like he wouldn’t know common sense if it came up and stole his glasses. 

“Chooses, choice, seems like you gave him a choice Enjolras and he threw it back in your face. In fact I’m pretty sure Grantaire’s just making the choices he knows he’s best for right R? Nothing better then whoring in a back alleyway out of his head on drugs then coming home to me.”

“Its not a choice if its forced onto him Montparnasse.”

Montparnasse eyes flash for the lack of emotional response to his goading. Slowly he takes a step forward and then another step before he’s right in Enjolras’ face. And Enjolras is stupidly pleased to find he’s about an inch and a half taller and Montparnasse has to look up at him to glare. 

“And what is it about you that makes you so special to him, huh? I mean coming from one of the richest families in the country there’s definitely wealth there. Or not, apparently since you’re estranged. So maybe not so much money. I’ll give you that. But what else? You a good fuck? Although by the looks of you, you wouldn’t know what to do with it, right Grantaire? Too stiff lipped and righteous for the likes of you. You need someone who knows how to fuck you the way you want to be fucked. Like a whore.”

Enjolras lets his lip curl just a little at that but remained silent. 

“I don’t get it.” Montparnasse suddenly snarls, his face transforming in a moment as he whirls on Grantaire, “This?” He says pointing at Enjolras, “This is what you reject me for? This ridiculous excuse for a human being? What is it about him, is it his looks? Is it his money? I can give you money Grantaire, all the money in the world. I’ll even let you sleep with him if that’s what you want. You can keep him. I don’t care. But why not choose me? I love you Grantaire, when this fucker wouldn’t even touch you with a ten foot pole.”

And for the first time Enjolras spies a momentary flash of real emotion on Montparnasse. It’s strangely vulnerable, like a little kid denied his favorite toy for bad behavior and now he’s throwing a temper tantrum. And for a moment Enjolras is taken aback by the thought that Montparnasse, in his own twisted way, may actually care or feel something for Grantaire. Enjolras pushes the thought away, what’s important now is getting both him and Grantaire out of this interaction alive, the flash of silver he spied on Montparnasse’s waist is enough to convince Enjolras that’s Montparnasse is at least armed with something that could be potentially very dangerous.

Grantaire, whose eyes had been closed for most of the interaction, flashes them open at the sound of his own name.

“You don’t’ love me,’ he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “And do dare claim that you did this out of love. You don’t drug the person you love, you don’t hit them, you don’t fuck them without their consent and you certainly don’t make them watch when you fuck someone else in front of them. That’s not love Montparnasse, that’s some sort of twisted psychopathic game.”

Montparnasse looks stricken for a moment before his face falls back into a mask of fury, his voice low and cajoling, “I would do anything for you Grantaire. Can’t you see that? Why can’t you see that we’re meant to be together?”

Grantaire looked up, his face crumpled in complete disbelief, “You act like we have some sort of mystical connection, but based on what? The fact that we fucked two years ago when I didn’t know that you were a psycho? That we have similar backgrounds? On what? There a literally thousands of guys that have had the same experiences, and you’ve slept with hundreds of guys. What makes me special to your deluded mind? No actually, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know what makes me so fucking romantically desirable to no one else but a deluded sadistic psycho who pumps me full of drugs and sends me out to clubs like ‘Blue’ to fuck guys, because he knew I’d never sleep with him sober.” 

Enjolras lets himself be awestruck for a moment, able to see the fervent law student underneath the cloud of drugs and pain on Grantaire’s face. This is the Grantaire he knows; this is him, without the apathy. 

Montparnasse face goes expressionless, almost as if conceding defeat, “You don’t’ want me? Fine.” He says and then suddenly he has Enjolras by the throat, a glinting knife pressing lightly to his neck as Enjolras can feel a light trickle of blood running down his collarbone.

Grantaire lets out a strangled yell as he clumsily winces to his feet, his body stumbling on a crumpling knee, but his face desperate and defiant; his chin set in a stubborn line and his blue eyes glittering. One hand outstretched and the other in his pocket, or braced on his bad leg, it was hard for Enjolras to tell in the light and with a knife to his throat.

But despite the situation Enjolras feels a surge of respect for Grantaire again, the feeling battling with his own fear and anger. 

“Montparnasse, put down the knife, please. You can have me, all of me, you can. Just let Enjolras go.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest but gets cut off when Montparnasse shouts back.

“You think I don’t know? You think you can outsmart me? I know how you feel Grantaire; I heard your pathetic little monologue before when it was just you and him. ‘No one loves the light like a blind man’? Come on Grantaire, even you know he’s so far above you. But me? We’re the same, you know this. And once I get rid of Enjolras we can be together, without him distracting you.”

Grantaire’s face twists desperately and Enjolras felt himself twist with it, still very aware of the knife at his neck, “No, please Montparnasse, if you kill him now I’ll hate you forever, do you really want that? Do you want me to resent you?”

Enjolras has to bite back a smile, Grantaire playing the Montparnasse the puppet master like a master himself. Was it weird to be turned on by that? Yeah it was weird to be turned on by manipulation Enjolras concedes. 

Montparnasse hesitates at that, the knife trembling in his hand, “No” he says quietly, “I just want you to love me.”

Grantaire’s face contorts into a bitter smile, sweat gathering at his brow, his limp pronounced as he steps a few feet forward, “I get that Montparnasse, it’s like an itch you can’t scratch. The feeling that you’ll never get what you want, no matter how hard you wish for it. But this isn’t going to make it happen. You can’t make someone love you. It doesn’t work like that, it never will. They either love you back or not. And whether Enjolras is alive or dead coming out of this back alleyway, it makes no difference to how I’ll feel.”

“But you love him. And If I get rid of him you’ll finally be allowed love me back, without him you’re free.” Montparnasse says desperately, his voice beseeching. 

Montparnasse is breathing heavily now, and the knife at Enjolras neck is shaking so much he can feel the nicks on his skin from where it’s digging in too deep.

Grantaire flickers a look to Enjolras, his face pale and drawn, a look that Enjolras interprets as “please don’t hate me for this” and Enjolras wants to yell and shout that nothing Grantaire could do would never make him hate him. Grantaire turns back to Montparnasse, “I do. I’ll love him dead or alive. That won’t change, Montparnasse. And you think I’m really going to be able to fall in love with the man that killed him? When I look at your face all I’m ever going to see is his murderer.” Grantaire says, his voice growing fainter as he struggles to stay upright. 

It’s supposed to be a romantic moment isn’t it? When someone tells you they love you for the first time, but its not real, Enjolras knows this, the knife to his neck is the reason Grantaire’s saying it.

Montparnasse reacts suddenly as he wrenches the knife away from Enjolras neck and flings him bodily to the ground with a shout as he rushes at Grantaire, who’s eyes widen.

Enjolras gingerly gets to his feet, careful not to make any sudden movements to enrage Montparnasse further. But Montparnasse pays him no attention as he holds Grantaire in what seems to be some sort of embrace against the bricks of the alleyway.

From what Enjolras can see Grantaire looks pale, sweat beading on his forehead his eyes shut from the view of Montparnasse who’s talking feverishly at him, like a drunk man, his voice low and desperate, on hand clenched tightly around Grantaire’s bicep and the other lost in the shadows.

“We could have been good together Grantaire, why couldn’t you just see that? We could have had it made. But I can’t let you not love me. I can’t not have you, I cant live if I know you’re out there living your life without me.”

Enjolras starts to worry, he can’t see the knife on Montparnasse’s person, nor is it on the ground around them. His heart lurches as he realizes that Grantaire’s eyes aren’t clenched shut, but are closed. As if he were sleeping. As if he were dead. 

But before he can leap forward and do something, anything, he hears the sound of scuffled footsteps behind him, and the sound of “Police! Freeze!”. The presence of police seems makes no different to Montparnasse who’s now sobbing into Grantaire’s still shoulder, “If I can’t have you, R, no one can.”

Enjolras has no time to wonder who called the police because suddenly Montparnasse’s arms are wrenched behind his back by two burly police officers and a bloodied knife falls to the ground as they wrestle him away from Grantaire. 

But all Enjolras can see is blood pouring from a wound in Grantaire’s pale stomach and Grantaire slowly falling forward, his body wilting and lifeless. Enjolras barely makes it over to him before Grantaire hits the ground, his body light but limp; his face horribly white and waxy looking, like his body’s been drained of blood. Enjolras instinctively puts pressure on the wound ignoring the warm rush of blood he feels as he yells at the cops desperately for an ambulance. 

Absently, as he cradles Grantaire’s body in his arms, Enjolras notices a beeping cell phone falling out of Grantaire’s limp hand. He pays it no mind as he hears the welcome siren of an ambulance from behind him and the slamming of doors. 

Through his blurring vision Enjolras can see medics crouching down next him their voices indistinct and murmuring as they slowly extricate a limp unresponsive Grantaire out of his arms. Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder and is guided up from his awkward crouch by a policeman ho starts asking him questions. But Enjolras pays him no mind as he watches hopelessly as the medics put pressure on Grantaire’s wound and start CPR. Suddenly Enjolras’ eyes are caught, once again, on the cell phone on the ground next to Grantaire. This time he snatches it up and recognizes the faintly glowing call to 911 still bright on the screen. 

Enjolras’ mind whirls in confusion, Grantaire had called the police? When? And why had he lied to Enjolras about not having his phone? Enjolras thinks back and suddenly it all becomes crystal clear; Grantaire had lied about the phone after he had realized that it was Montparnasse that had been spying on them in the alleyway. It had been Montparnasse’s footsteps they had heard that first time and Grantaire must have seen him. And Grantaire knew better then anyone how unstable Montparnasse was, he must have known that the only way they would have been able to call for help would have been if it were done secretly. And the hints, when Grantaire had named Montparnasse’s crimes, and their location hadn’t been for dramatic effect but for the benefit of the operator on the other end of the phone.

Shit. It all made sense.

Grantaire whilst drugged and in incredible pain had still managed to outsmart them both and called the police without them even realizing it.

Grantaire had saved Enjolras’ life as well as countless others by catching Montparnasse for the police and now he was going to die for it.

 

 

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOAH! man i just realised how much i love torturing Grantaire in this fic? What even. 
> 
> Also did anyone have their own fan casts for this fic (or les mis characters in general?) - I'd love to here them if you wanted to chuck them in the comments.
> 
> Also if I don't update before then, then Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Holidays. I hope everyone enjoys the break :)


	17. Interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahem, 
> 
> so, 
> 
> this is awhile coming and all i can say is that I'm glad the internet doesn't allow for teleportation or else I'd probably had most of you teleport to my room for the past few months to kick my ass for not updating sooner. 
> 
> am i right? or am I right?
> 
> Ha, anyways I don't have much of a good excuse except for RL and writers block and a crazy uni schedule. but im back in black as the saying goes and hopefully things will get back on track. 
> 
> Anyway, here's a short interludy type chapter before i begin finishing editing, writing and posting the last of this monstrosity of a fic! 
> 
> But you'll be glad to know that Grantaire is back and he's kind of grumpy. Also another fav of the Les Amis makes a cameo - see if you can guess who it is! Don't worry, its not hard to guess. 
> 
> And stay tuned for more to come soon!
> 
> Also almost forgot to tell you all - heres the URL for the soundtrack i made for the fic -  
> http://8tracks.com/weweresobeautiful/light-me-up-like-a-cigarette 
> 
> (as you might notice i have incorporated some of your suggestions! YAY!)
> 
> So listen and like and comment if you want to. 
> 
> Anyways, carry on and read on.
> 
> :)

Grantaire

 

Ugh, there was something stabbing into his eye. He tried to wave it away with his hand but his hand wouldn’t move no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on it again. Or maybe not - he was finding it hard to think properly. 

He tried to open his eyes to see what it was but his eyes refused to budge, like they were weighed down with bricks. Grantaire inwardly shrugged and let himself fall back to sleep, he’d deal with a dead arm in the morning. He was damn exhausted. 

 

***

 

The next time he felt anywhere near consciousness he could feel something hard slapping across his arm. 

Someone was slapping him on the arm and it hurt like a motherfucker. Grantaire jerked up and was happy to feel his arm finally move with his body’s flailing. Suddenly there were strong arms holding him down and someone was murmuring in his ear. He couldn’t make out what it was but it sounded soothing so Grantaire let himself be soothed. 

Then there was a stinging sensation in his arm and Grantaire felt vaguely betrayed at the soothing voice for stinging before his body drifted off into fuzz.

 

***

 

The next to he woke it was to the comforting sounds of the same voice as before. But thankfully this time his eyes didn’t feel like they were weighed down with lead, instead they felt light as a feather and slowly opened them. Blinking rapidly to get rid of the gunk that had built up in his sleep he noticed that the room he was in was stark white. Also he was lying in a bed surrounded by weird looking equipment. 

His mind subconsciously supplied the name of the place he was in. 

A hospital. 

Wonderful.

What the fuck had he done to himself now? And how the fuck was he going to pay for it without insurance, was his first immediate thought.

Grantaire blearily noticed that the soothing voice was coming from a guy sitting in the corner of his room. He was reading out loud from a book, like Grantaire was a fucking 4 year old. 

Grantaire absently watched the guy for a while before finally realizing he didn’t recognize him. 

The guy looked around Grantaire’s own age, he had dark slightly curling hair, tan skin and a square jawed, handsomely boyish face. 

Latino maybe? Grantaire mused, thinking that there were less lovely sights to wake up to, even if the guy was a stranger. 

And he was dressed in blue scrubs. A nurse of some sort then. Or an orderly. 

Grantaire gathered his bearings a bit and concentrated on the words coming out of the guy’s mouth. The familiar words sprung something is his mind and he found himself anticipating the next word, or line as if he had heard it before.

Finally his seemingly faulty mind gave him the answer to what the novel was, the guy was reading ‘Pride and Prejudice’. 

Nice. 

Grantaire wondered whether this was a new service the hospitals were now providing or whether he was just special. Perhaps they thought listening to the adventures of a plucky Victorian heroine and her handsome but emotionally unavailable hero were the key to waking up troublesome patients? 

Or perhaps he was still asleep and his mind was conjuring up useless, ridiculous dreams. Well maybe not useless, the guy at least was passably handsome, but not really Grantaire’s type. Grantaire’s type was now sort of stuck at blonde curling hair and facial features that wouldn’t look amiss on the face of a teenage girl. Motherfucking Enjolras had ruined him for other guys. Where the hell else was that guy going to intrude in his personal life uninvited? 

Grantaire’s eyes half slid closed again, his body inhumanely tired for someone that had apparently been just asleep, but was still half awake when the guy stopped reading, sighed, and closed the book before shuffling up to the bed, his hands seemingly doing an unconscious check of the many tubes and lines hooked up to Grantaire’s body. 

“Uh, I know you don’t know me.” He said, not quite whispering, voice serious and earnest, but sounding younger then he looked, “but I’m a friend of Enjolras and I know that coma patients can sometimes hear when people talk to them so I’m just going to ask that you please wake up. Because I don’t think Enjolras can take much more of you not being awake. And no one else can take much more of Enjolras if you don’t wake.” He paused, taking a shaky breath before continuing, “Not that they aren’t worried too, its just that I’ve never seen Enjolras so upset. Angry? Yes, determined, definitely but he seems genuinely distressed. It took me ages before the Les Amis accepted me as a friend well apart from Courfeyrac, and it only took them three minutes for you. So please wake up, if not for yourself, but for them. Please fight for them, if you let them they’ll be the best friends you’ve ever had.” 

Jesus, Grantaire thought groggily, not a dream then. Where the hell did Courfeyrac find people like this? But before he could work it out his brain was getting fuzzy and before he could indicate that he was in fact awake from his coma to the young, serious, handsome nurse (orderly?) his fogged mind took him, once again, for sleep.

 

***

 

The next time he felt himself come back into consciousness someone was reading ‘Pride and Prejudice’ again. This time his brain picked up on that fact almost immediately. But this voice was less soothing, more strident, with none of the softness of the guy before. 

No, this voice read the novel like it were a speech at a rally. Like he was pacing a courtroom floor, like he was verbally berating a hapless whore who had no prospects. 

Hmm that last one seemed kind of familiar Grantaire thought to himself and suddenly he knew that voice. Not intimately (he wished) but he definitely knew it.

It was Apollo. Enjolras. Warrior sun god and light of Grantaire’s life. 

And he was totally butchering the most romantic scene in the entire novel. 

Figures. Enjolras didn’t know romance if it jumped in front of him stark naked, quoting Robespierre and hitting him with a nine inch dildo.

Jesus, he felt high. Must be the morphine.

Grantaire eyes snapped open of their own accord, registering the soft morning light of the room before snapping onto the blonde haloed figure in the corner, the shadows making him look inhumane; the soft red of his jacket muted and his pale skin glistening slightly. He looked like a fucking angel, and not an avenging one either. More like those pretty haloed ones with the flowing hair. Looks can be deceptive Grantaire decided. 

Apollo’s eyes were narrowed in concentration as he read the words on the page, his complete and utter focus on the Regency romance novel tickling something in Grantaire who absently huffed out a laugh then immediately stopped when he realized how much it hurt. 

Suddenly he realized how much everything seemed to hurt. Fuck? What the hell had happened to him?

At the minute whimpering sound Grantaire couldn’t help but make, Enjolras’ head snapped up and his eyes widened. The book fell to the floor forgotten as he rose abruptly, his footsteps jerky before he stopped halfway to the bed as if trying to control his body’s automatic movements. 

Yeah, he didn’t look like an angel now, only awkward, exhausted and pale. 

Grantaire didn’t really know what to make of it. 

“You’re awake.” Apollo breathed, his eyes like a laser, tracking Grantaire’s face to his hands and down to his feet. 

Grantaire immediately felt the faint stirrings of self-consciousness under the intense gaze. Suddenly he became aware of his stiff ribs and throbbing pain in his abdomen, Grantaire’s eyes followed down his own bandaged arms like Enjolras’ had. His fingers looking spindly and fragile amongst the swathe of bandages. One fingernail was a lovely shade of mauve, he noticed distractedly. 

Well at least that explains the pain Grantaire thought before clearing his throat, remembering Enjolras question, or was it an exclamation? “Uh, yeah,” he says, his voice sounding like he had gurgled gravel then drank a liter of hot sauce. 

He cleared it again, eyes anywhere but on Enjolras’ intense gaze. Enjolras seemed to make an aborted movement toward him before thinking better of it and stilling his body ruthlessly.

“I should probably call for the doctor.” He says finally, his voice oddly constrained. 

And when Grantaire didn’t say anything at the pronouncement Enjolras turned on his heel toward the door.

“Wait!” Grantaire gets out through his parched throat. Enjolras paused and Grantaire chickened out on what he was originally going to say, “How long was I out?” He rasps finally.

There’s a pause before Enjolras answers, voice flat, face devoid of emotion, “Two weeks.”

 

 

To be continued…


	18. It's pride, it's madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aint you all lucky, two updates in one week? I think i've been replaced by a pod person!!
> 
> ha anyways the only warning i can give you guys for this update is "ANGST AHEAD! ARM YOURSELVES LADIES AND JELLYBABIES!!"
> 
> Also this is a super long chapter as well, so not only do you get angst but LOTS of angst!!! which is even better in my opinion (*laughs evilly*)
> 
> Also thanks everyone for the encouragingly lovely comments on the last chap! Nice to know i havent been given up for dead and that people are happy this fic will be finished!
> 
> Also if ya'll wanna know my fancast for Marius in this fic - check out Euan doidge! Not only does he have bone structure to die for but he plays a gorgeously innocent Marius in the Australian version of les mis playing atm (but not the photos where he's not smiling coz he looks like a hardass - check out picks where he's grinning like a total cheeseball! so cute!) 
> 
> So read on if you dare and as always kudos (over 400 now? what even? you guys are like the best!!!!!) and comments are always super duper welcome!!!!

Grantaire

 

 

Dr. Fauchelevent was his doctor apparently. She introduced herself before checking Grantaire’s vitals and asking about his pain levels whilst Enjolras brooded at the back of the room, his spine straight and his scowl drawing Grantaire’s attention away from the doctor every half second.

What was he so pissed about? It wasn’t like he was the one in a hospital bed with a patchy memory of how he got there.

Enjolras, true to form, had refused to leave when Dr. Fauchelevent had asked him to and had beseeched Grantaire with puppy dog eyes that Grantaire was sure Jehan had taught him when she had threatened to call in two big burly orderlies to get rid of him.

Too tired to argue Grantaire had let him stay trying not to feel happy at the triumphant and relieved smile Enjolras had shot him at his acquiescence. Because, after all, what was a little bit more pathetic heaped on what Enjolras already knew about Grantaire? It wasn’t like Grantaire harbored any more then ridiculous unrequited stupid feelings for the guy. If Enjolras wanted to get his kicks off knowing how fucked up the last month of Grantaire’s life had been then who was he to begrudge him? 

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Fauchelevent asked after her and Enjolras’ pissing match had finished and Enjolras (after losing) had situated his brooding self at the back of the hospital room. 

Grantaire tried to laugh but it came out sounding more like a gurgle, “Like I’m one big fucking bruise doc.” 

Dr. Fauchelevent smiles, “Do you remember what happened to bring you here?”

Grantaire winces, but decides to throw the floodgates open. He was going to have to think about it and remember sooner or later, better sooner when all the lovely painkillers were coursing through his system.

He casts his mind back to the day of the Les Amis’ subtle rejection and then the creepy encounter with Montparnasse then the overwhelming need to score he had felt after the horrible day. Then he remembered Tom, then the scarred guy in the alleyway and then waking up tethered to Montparnasse’s bed, a needle sticking out of his arm. His memory got faulty after that but that was probably due to the drugs and god knows what else that had been pumping through his system at the time. He remembers Montparnasse on top of him, then he remembers the emaciated form of Mallory leaning over him and pouring water in his mouth, his own gaunt face creased with worry and sympathy. 

Mallory. Fuck. Was he even still alive Grantaire wonders, getting panicked at the thought. He knows there’s more to remember but he can’t, his mind weary and shocked. All he can see is the small, white, heart shaped face that had kept him alive. Where the fuck was Mallory? Had the police found him? Was he alright?

He had been so small, so skinny. Suddenly Grantaire’s body starts to shiver uncontrollably, “I need to speak to the police, to someone. Please.” Grantaire rasped urgently, attempting to climb out of the bed. 

“So you remember?” Dr. Fauchelevent says, scribbling a note on the chart in her hands.

“Just parts mostly. It’s a bit patchy but that might be because of the drugs. Montparnasse’s drugs” He assures her when she starts to look worried, “Not yours.”

“So no amnesia, just drug induced memory loss?”

Grantaire searches his painful memories, he nods, “I think so. Please doc I really need to speak to the police, right now.” He says a little desperately. 

Dr. Fauchelevent stills him with a hand on his shoulder, “Grantaire? I need you to relax and calm down. They’re on their way; we called them the moment you resurfaced from your coma. But first I need to explain to you your injuries so you know what to expect and what not to strain. Is that ok?”

Grantaire nods impatiently, than winces; his neck hurting like a motherfucker, looks like he already found something he wasn’t supposed to strain. 

Sr. Fauchelevent sits next to the bed and gets out her notes from a satchel, “We’ll start with your head and work our way down ok?” Grantaire nods and she continues, “So when you came in we actually didn’t think you were going to make it to be honest with you. We found large amounts of opiates, methamphetamine, cocaine and GHB in your system and if you hadn’t had such a resistance to the drugs already you probably would have died.”

“Yay for being a former drug addict.” Grantaire says dryly and Dr. Fauchelevent purses her lips as if to hold in a smile, “You also had a fractured nose and a broken eye socket, severe bruising to your neck and torso consistent with heavy beating and sustained, prolonged strangulation. The skin on your arms and elbows was bruised and damaged from improper needle usage as well as rope burns on your ankles and wrists. You also have three fractured ribs as well as a knife wound to your side. Fortunately it missed your kidneys and anything else vital but you did lose a lot of blood, we had to do surgery on it. You also have anal tearing and bruising in your groin and on your penis. The backs of your thighs and buttocks also have bruises. Your knee was dislocated and damaged from being out of its socket for so long. Your body also displays many old healing bruises which means that every things going to hurt a lot for a little while.” She says it all calmly and sedately.

‘Wow, don’t hold back.” He says finally his mind reeling with how much damage his body had taken and he’d only been with Montparnasse a few weeks? Montparnasse was complete and utter fucker and if Grantaire ever saw him again there was no doubt what he would do. There was only so much kicking a dog would get before it turned around and mauled you.

An aborted snarl like sound from the back of the room seems to agree with him and it takes Grantaire a moment to realize that it had come from Enjolras but Enjolras is perfectly still when they both turn to look at him. In fact his face is completely blank, the only indication of his feelings betraying him in his pale pallor and his white clenched knuckles. 

“If this is too much for you, Enjolras, you are free to leave.” Dr. Fauchelevent says, her voice holding some concern and her eyes tracking Enjolras’ deliberate unclenching of his hands as he shakes his head, “At least take a seat then?” She says indicating to the Jane Austen chair and Enjolras, after a moment’s hesitation, collapses into it.

Dr. Fauchelevent faces back to Grantaire, “But lastly I want to talk to you about something very serious that is possibly life threatening. Actually, not possibly but is in fact life threatening.”

Grantaire swallowed. What else could possibly be wrong with him? Had Montparnasse damaged one of his internal organs? Did that motherfucker give him HIV? 

“When we did a CT scan to see if you had any internal injuries, except for bruising your body came back clear. But your liver didn’t.”

Grantaire glances back at Enjolras, who’s eyes are intent on Dr. Fauchelevent, his face set.

He takes a breath, logically he knew this was coming at some point, it didn’t help that he had been actively trying to drink himself to death, “Ok doc, what’s the damage?”

“Your liver shows signs of advanced Alcoholic Liver Disease, not only that but its effecting the way your body heals from wounds and bruises, and it’s probably the reason behind your slow healing. Excessive drinking most probably caused this. And is incredibly advanced for someone of your age. In fact we usually see this sort of damage in men in their fifties.”

“Is it cirrhosis?” Comes Enjolras voice from across the room, his tone deceptively casual.

Grantaire takes a breath, even he knew how bad that was, and glances back at Dr. Fauchelevent who shakes her head, “Thankfully it hasn’t come to that, not yet at least. However if Grantaire continues to drink at the same level he has then cirrhosis will definitely develop and he will need a liver transplant.”

Grantaire sucks in a breath and Dr. Fauchelevent continues, her eyes serious but her tone calm, “You cannot continue this way Grantaire, liver function affects almost every part of your body. And damage to your liver is the reason cuts won’t heal on your body, the reason bruises continue to stay, the reason you’re so malnourished because your system cannot metabolize the food that you eat properly. It also affects the way your mind works, you may think alcohol is helping to ease your depression but the long-term effects of it aren’t. In fact liver disease worsens the effects of depression.”

Grantaire nodded, he wasn’t stupid, he knew the affects of excessive alcohol consumption better then anything, only back then he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died and now? Well now he wasn’t sure whether that was true anymore. 

“Look I wont preach any more to you about this, but the best way to combat liver disease is to cease drinking altogether. Sounds easy right? But not to an alcoholic. However we do offer detox services here at the hospital as well as outpatient support to those detoxing at home. We can also prescribe anti-depressants; we have on staff psychiatrists, experienced staff like Marius, as well as other areas of support. And if you do decide to come to us then I have been assured not only by Enjolras but a great big chunk of guys in the waiting room that they can provide financial assistance if you need. We are aware you do not have insurance, but this hospital stay has been funded by an anonymous donor so you don’t have to worry about that. “

Grantaire spluttered and pointed an accusing eye of the silent man at the back of the room, “Anonymous? Anonymous as in Enjolras?”

Dr. Fauchelevent only smiled, “We cannot disclose that sort of information as the donor is, of course, anonymous. We would be breaching our contract with that person or persons if we did.”

Enjolras’ poker face was abysmal in comparison to Dr. Fauchelevent’s but Grantaire lets it go. Whatever, it was Enjolras’ money to waste. 

Dr. Fauchelevent hesitates before continuing, “Some of your other friends are in the waiting room, did you want me to let them in? I don’t think the waiting rooms been empty since you came in here. Ah, especially Enjolras, we had to force him home on a few occasions.” She says, her face plain but her eyes twinkling as if she were both amused and impressed at the blonde statue standing at the foot of his bed like a cross between a guardian and an angry fairy godmother. Enjolras narrows his eyes at the Doctor as if he still held a grudge for that.

Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to make of that either. A guilty conscience? Or something else? He dared not think too hard about it. Grantaire shook his head, if he even gave himself any sense of hope otherwise then he was doomed. But Enjolras had looked so raw, so fucking hopeful when he had seen Grantaire wake that it was instinctive to think there might be more to it. And Grantaire was too fucked up to have any sort of meaningful relationship outside of a vodka bottle. And he was no proxy for a hero complex. He had made that clear.

Right? 

But if it were Enjolras? Would he be able to resist? The thought of Enjolras leaving him when the going got tough splashed cold water on his feelings straight away. No way would he allow that.

He’s saved from replying to her question, howeverm by a hesitant knock at the door. Dark haired handsome scrubs guy from before sticks his head in, throwing a terrified glance at Enjolras then smiling briefly at Grantaire before his gaze turned adoring to address the doctor, “Ah excuse me Dr. Fauchelevent?”

“Yes Marius?” the doctor says, smiling pleasantly and inquiringly. 

“Two police detectives are here to see Grantaire.”

“Thanks Marius.” She says and Marius colors slightly before ducking back out of the room.

“Are you ok to see them?” She asks Grantaire and Grantaire grunts in the affirmative despite his body aching and his head feeling like its stuffed full of wool. And, you know, the whole PTSD thing.

“Are you sure?” She asks again, seeming to sense his thoughts. “No doubt they will have important questions, but your wellbeing is our first priority, you’ve been through a lot, no one would blame you if you wanted a few more days before facing the police.”

“No, I want to see them. Send them in.” 

Grantaire figures he can do this, if not for himself them at least for Mallory and countless other young boys and girls like him that were victimized by Montparnasse. 

Mallory had saved his life; it was time to return the favor. 

Dr. Fauchelevent leaves and a few moments’ later two plain clothed detectives enter the room.

“I’m Detective Floreal and this is Detective Champmathieu. You are Grantaire, correct?”

Detective Floreal was built slight but sturdy, dressed in a dark no nonsense suit, dark hair in a bun, her hulking partner dressed similarly. 

“Correct.”

“Who’s this?” She says her gaze landing on Enjolras.

Enjolras, having stood the moment the detectives had walked through the door, strode forward, back stiff and head held high, “I’m Enjolras, Grantaire’s legal counsel. And brother.” He adds lamely. 

Looking faintly amused at Enjolras (as no one in their right mind would ever believe tall, blonde willowy Enjolras and short, dark haired, slightly stocky Grantaire were brothers), Detective Floreal says pleasantly but firmly, “Grantaire is not under arrest Enjolras, and he has permitted to speak with us, he needs no legal counsel.”

Enjolras nods jerkily, “I am aware.” But does not leave the room. 

Floreal’s purse her lips before her face clears and she nods in acceptance, “If Grantaire has no issue you remaining here then I have no issue with it either.” She looks at Grantaire for confirmation and he sighs and rolls his eyes, “I doubt a legal injunction by the UN itself could get him out of this damn room right now, and I’d rather not bother Ban Ki-Moon right now with something as trivial as this.”

This draws a small smile (or at least a slight quivering of the lips) from the stone faced Detective Champmathieu and Grantaire tries not to feel too pleased.

“Now can you tell us what occurred of the night of the 21st December? I’m assuming that’s when you went missing, according to your friends.”

Grantaire wondered, friends? Who had known he had gone missing, Tom maybe. Could it be the Les Amis? Were they his friends now? They said they were but then they didn’t want him at there’s for Christmas, so maybe not. 

Grantaire hesitated before answering however, he didn’t really want to reveal his profession to the authorities, as ridiculously as it was, street prostitution was still illegal in the city. But on the other hand he wanted to provide the authorities with as much evidence as possible to prosecute Montparnasse. 

Seeming to note his hesitation Detective Floreal gives him a minute smile, “Just to be clear, we are investigation and collecting evidence in order to prosecute Montparnasse whom we have had in custody awaiting further charges, any illegal activities on your behalf admitted to here will be waived for the information you give. We give our promise in front of your legal counsel.” She says seriously, nodding in the direction of Enjolras.

Grantaire glances back at Enjolras who gives him a slight nod and backs it up with, “We’ll need a contract in writing.” As if to say ‘yes, that correct and they cant throw you in jail for testifying, not if they give their promise in contract’. Grantaire’s stomach settles, because if Enjolras said it was ok then it was definitely ok. If there was anything he could trust Enjolras for, it was this. 

He clears his throat, keeping his eyes deliberately on the blanket lying across the bandages on his side, now was as any good as any to rip the band aid off his horrifying memories, but whatever he had been through Mallory had been through much, much worse. He takes a breath, voice low and slightly shaky, “When I got home from buying cigarettes that day Montparnasse came around to my apartment for the rent. And he was acting weird, weirder then usual.”

Detective Floreal made a note and nodded, “How so?”

Grantaire blew out a breath, he really didn’t need Enjolras to know this but he figured, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Well, I mean a few years ago we slept together, this is when I first met him and I seriously didn’t know he was a psycho I swear. And I only slept with him once, but ever since then he was always sort of possessive, as if he owned me or something? Anyway that day he started on it again saying shit like ‘we belonged together’ and that I should start working for him, like he was my pimp. Things got pretty heated and I told him to fuck off and he threatened me. That made him angry but at least he did fuck off, and I thought that was the end of it.” Grantaire took a breath and glanced up, Detective Floreal gave him a nod as if to say, ‘go on’.

“So I went out on the streets that night to, uh, work. It had been pretty slow so I’d been out there for a few hours before I got um, hired, by this guy with a hoody. Something seemed off about him but I was too desperate for a john to care. I followed him to an alleyway and...” He broke off, his voice going scratchy and he furiously wiped at the stupid tears that had sprung up into his eyes of their own accord (he certainly did not give them permission to be there), “Uh, sorry, so I followed him there and we had an argument.”

“About what?” Floreal’s voice is calm, and flat and curiously that helps. She’d probably heard plenty of sob stories over the years, this was just another on the list.

“Uh well he wanted it bareback and without lube. I said the bareback was fine but no way was I doing it without lube. It’s gunna fucking hurt right?” Grantaire winces slightly, yay for discussing gay sex with police detectives! 

“Then what happened?” The detective urges quietly, Grantaire takes a breath and glances up at Enjolras, because for some reason he feels guilty for what he’s about to say. Which is stupid and irrational and ridiculous because no one chooses to get raped, do they? Enjolras face is like stone, his eyes looking suspiciously bright and Grantaire glances back down at his blanket, clenches his fist before continuing.

“Then he got rough and threw me onto the ground and started kicking and hitting me. I passed out but not before he removed my trousers.”

“You believe you were raped?” Floreal asks in that same flat, calm tone, as if they were discussing the weather.

Grantaire swallows, queasily remembering the feeling of the guy’s erection grinding into his back, “Maybe? I think that might have been his goal all along, you know? He was too insistent on something that not a lot of hookers would do, and he was practically stealing for a fight if you know what I mean. But I can’t be certain. Dr. Fauchelevent said there was evidence I had been but it could have been Montparnasse?”

Looking up he caught Floreal exchanging a look with her partner but he was too tired to imagine its implications.

“We had you tested for a rape kit when you first came in. We found two sets of DNA. So it is very probably that this man did rape you.”

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably, his eyes, once again, seeking Enjolras’. But for once Enjolras isn’t looking at him. His eyes are intent on both the detectives. No help there then.

Grantaire shrugs, “At least I was mostly unconscious for the uncomfortable stuff right?”

The joke falls flat and Grantaire is left once again fidgeting. Before Floreal starts talking again. 

“Can you describe your first attacker?”

Grantaire frowned, his memory was pretty fuzzy but this guy had at least been memorable, “He was tall, maybe 6”2? He had dark clothes on and a hoody for most of it. But I did get a look at his face. He looked about 40, and had dark greying hair. He also had a scar running through his eyebrow.”

Floreal exchanged another look at her companion and quickly rifled through the folder in her hand before bringing out a picture.

“Is this the man?” She asked handing over what appeared to be a mug shot.

Grantaire looked down at the picture and nodded, the guy looked younger but it was definitely him.

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Babet. He’s a member of the Patron-Minette. We believe he targeted you specifically on the orders of Montparnasse. Do you have any reason as to why?”

Grantaire shrugged, “I don’t think there was ever any rationale to it. Montparnasse just had this crazy notion that we were supposed to be this century’s version of bonnie and Clyde. It was stupid and crazy and it didn’t make much sense. I mean I suppose he was serious about that threat, it hadn’t occurred to me before now that Scarface was on Montparnasse’s payroll.”

Floreal nodded, “We’re pretty sure that that is the case. So what happened next?”

“Next moment I wake up in his basement tied onto a bed and someone’s trying to feed me water. Oh shit Mallory, it was Mallory? Have you found him? Fuck he looked half dead, please tell me you found him!”

Floreal took a lot at her folder, “Mallory O’Shaughnessy was found when we stormed the basement of Montparnasse’s apartment. He is currently in hospital, he’s unwell but in a stable condition.”

Grantaire lets out a relieved breath and a weight falls from his shoulders. At least Mallory was alive. He wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if his little stunt with the phone didn’t get Mallory out of there. 

“He saved me when I was there. He saved my life.” It’s not important, not to the grand scheme of things, but he feel stupidly gratified when Floreal notes it down in her notebook anyway. 

“Do you recall what happened when you were kidnapped?”

Grantaire shook his head, “Not much. I remember him injecting me and I remember struggling. I remember him on top of me and yelling at me. I was drugged for most of it.” There’s a pause before he continues quietly, “I remember Mallory, I remember him raping Mallory. And making me watch. I think I made him mad so that was my punishment.”

There’s another choked off sound from the back of the room but no one looks. 

“You don’t recall how long you were held?”

“No. The drugs made everything really fuzzy. I had no idea.”

“Do you recall where he took you to procure sex for money?”

“No, they all blur together. The only one I can recall is ‘Blue’ and that’s because that night I remember Mallory switching the needles Montparnasse was injecting me with so I was more lucid.”

Floreal nodded, “The tox screen indicates that there was a large amount of GHB in your system among others. It’s possible that instead of the methamphetamine that the swapped needle was the less potent GHB. It is possible that because of that you were able to escape.”

Grantaire closes his eyes against the stupid leaking tears, more grateful to Mallory then ever, “I have to see him, I have to say thank you.” He says, hating how shaky his voice comes out, hating how stupidly vulnerable he sounds in front of the big burly detectives, in front of Enjolras.

The silence ends when Floreal clears her throat, packs away her notepad and says, not unkindly, “That’s all we need for today Grantaire. Thank you. We’ll probably be in touch though to get you to sign a statement and here’s our number if you remember anything else from your ordeal. Also be aware we may have to call you as a witness against both Babet and Montparnasse if this goes to trial. We have enough evidence from Montparnasse’s apartment, you and Mallory’s statements and Babet’s confession to put him away for a long time, if not life. Not only that but this might also help bring down the entire Patron-Minette in the future. You cannot begin to imagine how much this statement will help to do that.”

Grantaire feels stupidly gratified and nods jerkily as the bulky figure of Champmathieu holds the door open for Floreal to walk through in front of him.

Thankfully the tears have stopped and Grantaire hastily scrubs at his face, studiously avoiding Enjolras’ eyes.

“You tired?” Enjolras asks finally, his voice holding an odd note. 

Grantaire sighs, “Yeah.”

“You should sleep.” The odd tone making Grantaire uncomfortable. He laughs a little bitterly, “I couldn’t sleep if I tried.”

“The drugs might help?” 

Grantaire looks up and Enjolras is looking uncertain, his body hovering halfway between the chair and the bed. It’s disconcerting how unlike him it is, how un-Enjolras it is for him to not be certain of what to do in every situation.

Grantaire takes pity on him and pats the blanket; “You can come sit on the bed if you like. I’m not going to bite.”

Enjolras eyes him warily for a moment as if Grantaire might actually be serious about the whole biting thing before striding across the room and sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, taking as little space as possible. Grantaire would laugh at the absurdity of the situation if his whole body didn’t feel like it would seize up the moment he opened his mouth.

“No drugs.” He says finally into the rapidly descending awkward silence.

“No drugs? But how will you manage your pain?” The tone isn’t patronising, only concerned. 

Grantaire laughs again, this time quietly as pain lances through his body as he concedes the point, “Maybe some non injectable ones then? I never even want to see a fucking needle again in my life.”

Enjolras nods, as if he gets it, “How bad was it?” And Grantaire immediately knows what Enjolras is asking which, can he ever come back from something like that and still live a normal life.

“Go I don’t even know, all I can say is that I don’t even mind the pain right now. You know what? The pain is actually great. The pain tells me I’m alive rather then the horrible helpless feeling of fog and uncertainty of the fucking drugs.”

Grantaire shrugs, “No I can handle the pain, as long as I never have to feel a prick in my arm ever again. It’s ridiculous isn’t it? The only reason I ever drunk was because I could never afford to get high, and then I get ridiculously high on all the good stuff for two whole weeks and I now I would never want that feeling ever again. And you know what the difference is Enjolras?”

Enjolras shakes his head, his face still uncertain, but Grantaire is too much on a roll to care, all he hurt and anger in him seems to have spilt its banks and he can’t stop, “The difference is that this time I didn’t choose it. This time I was tied up and had needle after needle forced into me. This time I watched as a young boy was raped in front of me, limp as a ragdoll because he was so high his body lost consciousness. This time he made me go out and suck guys off because of my ‘debt’. And none of this was my choice. I remember lying there thinking that if I ever got out of there that I would never touch another needle in my life and now that I am out? It makes me sick to think that the reason I’m sweating, and the reason my hands can’t stop shaking and the reason I want to claw the skin off my chest is because of fucking withdrawal from all those fucking drugs I swore I’d never touch again. I swore I’d never turn into my mother. But here I am. The spitting fucking image of her: a whore, a drug addict, an alcoholic. A complete and utter fucking waste of space.”

Enjolras stills Grantaire’s shaking hands with his own, and Grantaire wants to throw them off. But he doesn’t, because it is Enjolras, because he would do anything to feel Enjolras hands on him, even if it meant letting him touch his tainted flesh.

“Grantaire, you said it yourself. You’re not your mother because you never had a choice, which I’m assuming she did. You are the victim here, nothing you said or did will ever justify what happened to you.”

Grantaire shakes his head, “But I could have fought, I could have done something, anything, when he was do those things to Mallory.”

Enjolras blows out a breath, “You can’t blame yourself for that. There was nothing you could have done and you saved his life when you escaped. Mallory would have died if you hadn’t found me and called the police.”

Grantaire shrugs, neither agreeing or conceding, “I knew he was in the alleyway you know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Enjolras seems to follow his train of thought and doesn’t call Grantaire out for changing the subject and Grantaire is relieved for it.

“Are you kidding Grantaire? That trick with your phone saved our lives, I don’t think I’ve ever seen both Courfeyrac and Combeferre both speechless at the same time before, but they were when I told them how you duped Montparnasse. And me. That was so smart.”

Grantaire allows himself a small smile in return, he feels stupidly shy for a moment, “I never thought it would work you know. I was desperate and still pretty high. Actually I probably wouldn’t have thought of it if I weren’t high in the first place. It was a stupid risky move. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras’ voice is low and fervent when he replies, “It wasn’t stupid, it was smart. And was I impressed? Yes. Was I surprised? No. I know how intelligent you are Grantaire. I’ve never doubted it.” 

Suddenly Grantaire becomes aware of the fact that Enjolras is still, effectively, holding his hands, and that despite Enjolras’ effort they were very much quite close on the bed together. The tension in the air is probably a product of his fevered little mind, but their close proximity is real. Very real, and its freaking Grantaire out. 

“You think I’m smart?” Grantaire finally manages to choke out, gratified that his voice sounds at least halfway normal. Its stupid, and he knows he’s fishing for compliments but he’s too tired to care.

“I think a lot of things.” Comes the hoarse reply and Grantaire glances up, surprised at Enjolras’ tone. 

Enjolras’ face is now only inches from his and the expression on his face is hard to read, it’s a weird combination of awe, frustration and something like gentleness. It’s incredibly raw and Grantaire can’t help but gasp slightly before Enjolras’ lips descend on his, the movement swift and hard.

Grantaire, in his surprise, allows himself to be gently kissed for all of two seconds before wrenching back and using his good arm to weakly shove Enjolras’ chest. Enjolras immediately pulls back. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Grantaire demands, his voice rough and high with uncertainty. 

Enjolras jumped off the bed as if something had electrocuted him, glaring and touching his lips as if they betrayed him as if they kissed Grantaire of their own volition. 

“What the hell was that!” Grantaire demands again his own fingers mirroring Enjolras’, feeling his lips, feeling the tingle. Unable to process exactly what had just occurred. 

Enjolras still looks a little dazed as he answers, “A kiss?”

Grantaire huffs in frustration, “I know it was a kiss dumbass, I want to know why. Why you kissed me!?”

Enjolras shakes his head as if clearing it before his face falls back into its habitual scowl, “I kissed you because I wanted to.” Idiot, the tone implies. Jesus Grantaire was smart just a few moments ago; Enjolras needs to make up his mind. 

Grantaire eyes him suspiciously, his emotions all over the place, “You wanted to huh? All that talk of rape and drug abuse got you hot under the collar did it?”

Grantaire knows it was an idiot move the moment he said it as Enjolras’ scowl falls in favour of the hardest expression Grantaire has ever seen on his face, “Are you fucking kidding me? You are so fucking impossible sometimes Grantaire. I fucking kissed you because I damn well wanted to.”

Shit, for ‘fuckings’ in a row from someone who had never sworn in Grantaire’s presence before. He must have really hit a sore spot. Grantaire’s face heats unable to think of a single thing to say as the moment of silence that greets that pronouncement lengthens and finally Enjolras clears his throat and hold his hands out in supplication, the hard expression gone, replaced by one of remorse, “Look, I’m sorry I kissed you ok? I’m sorry I did that without consent. I know how much that must mean to you now, more then ever. I wasn’t fucking thinking. It was stupid and impulsive and I should have asked, god I’m sorry Grantaire.”

Grantaire looks at him in astonishment, “You think I’m angry because you didn’t ask to kiss me first?”

Enjolras looks lost for a moment before continuing uncertainly, ‘Well yes? I mean I thought the timing was right, but why on earth would the timing be right on a hospital bed where you’ve just come out of a coma because you endured two weeks of hell where you had no choices at all? What the hell kind of timing was that? I should have explained my feelings first. Yes, that would have been the logical thing to do.”

Grantaire shakes his head, “You think you like me and think you want to be with me.” He says flatly.

Enjolras stills and looks down at Grantaire, noting his disbelieving tone with a scowl, “I do not just think, I know I like you and want to be with you.” He says, his voice equally flat but his eyes searching as if Grantaire’s still a puzzle he needs to crack. 

Grantaire can’t but feel annoyed or help the disbelieving little laugh that pops out of him, or that fact that his hands start to shake again without Enjolras there to steady them, “I get that this has been a dramatic and traumatic thing for everyone but that’s all this is, its just your adrenaline or protective hormones or something. You don’t really like me Enjolras. You can’t. It’s not real.”

Enjolras stops pacing and faces Grantaire, face twisting, “Don’t tell me what I feel!” He snaps before visibly taking a breath and relaxing his shoulders, “What I mean to say is that I have been feeling like this for a while so its not like it’s a product of adrenaline or whatever other ridiculous theory you have. This is real and if you don’t feel that same way, which you obviously don’t, I would prefer you just say so instead of dictating to me what I do and don’t supposedly feel.”

Grantaire grabs at his hair in frustration, before stopping when he remembers his bandaged hands, “If I don’t feel that same way? Are you crazy? Don’t you realize Enjolras? Don’t you realize that you could have anyone? Anyone you wanted in the whole entire world barring straight guys and probably even some of them too if you really tried. You could have a guy who’s just as educated as you. Who didn’t drop out of college because he chose drugs over something worthwhile, who’s got money like you, who’s as passionate about things as you are, who doesn’t argue with you about everything. Who doesn’t have track mark scars up his arms, who doesn’t have a drinking problem. Or liver disease.” Grantaire rubs a hand over his fading scars and continues, his voice quieter, more restrained, defeated, “Fuck, you could have someone who can remember how many sexual partners they’ve had. Someone who isn’t broken and has panic attacks at the sight of needles. Someone who isn’t so fucked up by his childhood that he doesn’t know how to do anything but whore like his mammy. Don’t foist yourself with me Enjolras just because you think you have to. Or out of some stupid feeling of pity or honor or guilt. Who in their right mind would choose me?”

Enjolras looks shocked and Grantaire feels a vague sense of satisfaction, he had meant to shock. Meant to shock Enjolras out of whatever ridiculous mood had bought all this on. As much as his own heart yearned for it he wasn’t going to let Enjolras throw his life away on a whim. On him. Enjolras deserved better. Enjolras deserved more then a washed up ex junkie whore.

Except that Grantaire’s lips still tingled. As if a reminder of what he could have. But he wouldn’t do that to Enjolras. 

Enjolras took a breath and said in a quiet, hard voice, “I’m insulted that you think things like sexual partners and panic attacks were in any way reasons as to why I would not like you or want to be with you. And differences? Yes we have differences; of course we have differences, just like anyone. You may not be as educated as me but that means nothing, you’re just as intelligent if not, more so. And you may not be as passionate about things I care about, but no one really is. And I can be passionate enough for the both of us. And arguing? You idiot, I like arguing with you, I like arguing against someone who can hold his or her own, who can win against me. That’s one of the most attractive things about you!” Enjolras says, throwing his hands in exasperation, his pacing becoming more frenetic, “And money? You think I care about money? My own at least? No, I do not. I care about the lack of it for some people, the work they have to do to get it, how difficult it is to come by for some people but not for others. How withholding it could mean life or death. But the lack of it in someone I care about only concerns me if it is making life harder for them. And if it were a problem for some people then I would question whether they had any feelings in the first place. And as for your alcoholism, it may be a part of you but it is not who you are. Jesus the whole entire reason I started the Les Amis was because I understood what poverty and cycles of poverty and depression does to people and you implying that I would be with you out of honor or guilt only means you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”

Like a good lawyer, Grantaire doesn’t miss a beat before replying, “Don’t you get it Enjolras? This isn’t about you, never has been. I’m too broken to be with anyone let alone you. I can’t do it, I just cant.” He says finally, his tone hard. 

Enjolras stops pacing and advances, matching Grantaire’s hard tone with one even harder, “Why cant you? What are you so afraid of?” He demands. 

Grantaire snaps back, “You’ll just be like everyone else, just like them. Because trust me, you think you like me, even love me. But you don’t, after the drama fades and after the honeymoon phase has passed you’ll realize how sick I really am, how hard its going to be and then you’ll start to resent me because this isn’t what you signed up for. This isn’t what you expected when you played at being hero and saved the broken boy. So don’t insult my intelligence by telling me that’s not what’s happening here because by god I know the signs, its not like this hasn’t happened before. Except if it’s you? If this time I let it happen again and it’s you that is the one who leaves me? I’m not sure if I could come back from that Enjolras. Or if I’ll want to.” He adds, hating how vulnerable his voice finishes, how much Enjolras had made him reveal of his fucked up psyche. 

Enjolras’ hard expression drops at Grantaire’s tone, “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust me when I say I love you. You don’t trust me when I say I wont leave you when it becomes hard.” He says finally, and flatly.

Grantaire laughs, a strangled broken sound at the word ‘love’, “Don’t’ worry Apollo, you’re not special. I don’t trust anyone anymore.”

Enjolras’ face is a mask of vulnerability and it breaks Grantaire’s heart just a little, “You won’t even try?” The question isn’t one from a formidable lawyer in training, or even a revolutionary leader, no it’s a question wrenched from the depths of childhood; hopeless, helpless and confused. Like a little boy lost. 

Grantaire has to turn away, his dismissive words belying his raw tone of voice when he answers, “Trust me Apollo, I may be self destructive but I’m not suicidal.”

Grantaire wants to run away and hide from all of this; emotional and physical exhaustion making it so he can’t stand to look at the man who holds his heart, because despite how much he tries to deny it, Grantaire was Enjolras’ the moment they met on that freezing night months ago. But just because Enjolras held Grantaire’s heart didn’t mean Grantaire was ever going to give him the means to crush it. If Enjolras didn’t know just how much of Grantaire he held, then Grantaire was safe.

“I don’t know how to convince you that I’m different.” Enjolras says finally, his voice defeated and Grantaire hates himself even more for doing this to the normally proud, stubborn, radiant man. For reducing Enjolras like this. 

“You can’t convince me Enjolras, this is one debate you can’t win.” Is all Grantaire can say before the day starts taking its toll and his lids start to close. But the image of Enjolras standing there abandoned at the foot of his bed will probably haunt him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs for cover and hides from angry commenters* *HEA GUYS!!! HEA!!!!*


	19. Exposing reality to magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read this story chapter to chapter or has just binge read for 3 hours to finish or who got fed up with me and gave up and then came back a few months later coz no one can resist not knowing what happens to e and r. You are all freaking great and I'm so humbled that you not only chose my fic to read but continued to read, through all the mistakes, through all the ups and downs.
> 
> I especially want to thank those who kudosed and commented, these are a serious lifeline to writers - i probably wouldn't have had the drive to finish if it weren't for you guys so thank you all from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> \- i dedicate this chapter to all you angst/fluff lovers out there

Grantaire.

 

The few days is haze of pain, sleep, subtle withdrawal symptoms, nurse visits (which included doe eyed sad stares from Marius) and intermittent visits from Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who, thankfully, carefully avoided talking about anything to do with a certain blonde haired activist of which Grantaire had been incredibly grateful for. 

There also had been no visits from that same blonde haired activist of which Grantaire had mixed feelings. 

He was relieved but also stupidly, traitorously, disappointed. 

The relief was obvious enough to unpack (no one would enjoy a conversation between Enjolras and Grantaire now, not even Courfeyrac) but the disappointment irked him like nothing else. Grantaire had been the one to reject Enjolras hadn’t he? Then why should he feel disappointment, just because he was madly in love with Enjolras but couldn’t for the life of him bring himself to risk whatever sense of self he had left on a relationship that might eventually swallow him whole didn’t mean he had any right for self pity. 

He also should really stop watching Dr Phil. The man wasn’t even qualified for fucks sake!

And thank god neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac pled Enjolras case to him; Grantaire had had only the strength to reject Enjolras once, if he was pushed by either of them he might have capitulated completely. But, no, thankfully they respected his independence and autonomy enough to let him own and make his own decisions which, considering the past month they’d known him, let him know that they had faith in him. Or maybe they just didn’t want to make things awkward. Either way they were pretty damn awesome, and also meant that they hadn’t abandoned him when he needed friends the most. He knew the next few weeks would probably be the hardest of his entire life. 

Combeferre also snuck him sugar free, fat free, gluten free homemade cakes and cookies which were actually kind of good, you know, if you liked eating things that tasted like glue. But Grantaire appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. Having friends was pretty damn awesome. 

Courfeyrac, on the other hand, was a veritable library of gossip and happily relayed to Grantaire as many funny and interesting tidbits about college life as he could remember and Grantaire found himself smiling through the pain, a feat he may have deemed impossible only a few short weeks earlier.

Although interspersed with these anecdotes came Courfeyrac’s glum updates about the state of his love life which, apparently, was all wrapped up with this person (name not given so Grantaire assumed it was someone they both knew which narrowed down the possibilities to members of the Les Amis. Of which he suspected the only one). As apparently Courfeyrac’s fervent attempts at ‘courting’, as he called it, were going nowhere.

“I don’t even think he knows that I like him!” Courfeyrac wailed, wildly throwing his extremities in intermittent huffs of frustration.

Grantaire smothered a laugh, his ribs still protesting any sort of movement in his upper chest, “Well, have you told him?” 

Courfeyrac face twisted in an affronted expression of shock, “No! Are you kidding? Why on earth would I tell him?” he said plaintively, “Then he would know!”

Grantaire frowned, “Um, unless I’m mistaken Courf, isn’t that what you want?”

Courfeyrac groaned, “No, god, don’t you know anything Grantaire? What if I tell him and he rejects me, or god forbid laughs in my face! I would die.”

Grantaire sighed and wondered if this is what having a teenager is like, “That’s a risk you’ll have to take Courfeyrac. And come on, it’s Jehan, if he was going to reject you he would do it in the kindest way possible. It’s be like a stealth rejections, you wouldn’t even knew he had rejected you until, like, the next week.”

Courfeyrac looked miserable, “Yeah but if I keep it to myself then there’s no possibility of him ever rejecting me. That seems the safer option,” he said firmly, nodding to himself as if to say ‘Good point Courfeyrac’, before continuing, “And things aren’t awkward between us at the moment for the first time in ages. Things would get awkward if I told him.”

“Courfeyrac, don’t you owe it to him to tell him? What if he likes you too and you guys keep circling each other for the rest of your lives?”

Courfeyrac looked pained, “Yeah but what if he rejects me? If I become as insufferable as Enjolras has been these past couple of days I’m not sure I-“ he trails off, probably noticing the odd muscle spasm Grantaire got in his cheek at the mention of Enjolras, Courfeyrac claps a hand over his mouth, “Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mention He Who Must Not Be Named.” He says, the capitalism each word very clear. 

“He’s not Voldermort Courfeyrac, I’m not going to have some sort of Vietnam style flashback just because you said his name. Twitching maybe, the odd kick, most definitely. But no panic attacks.”

Courfeyrac fiddled with the blanket and looked up shyly before smiling gently, “Yeah, but you’ve been through so much horrific shit that we kind of all made the decision to makes things as comfortable as possible for you.”

If it had been any other time Grantaire would probably been pissed that they were treating him with such kid gloves but he was, well he was touched that they would go to such lengths just for him. It was weird being treated with kindness, so foreign.

At least they weren’t saying Montparnasse’s name anymore, now that would fuck with his head more then his dreams had started to. In fact his dreams had started to get so bad Grantaire had become afraid of sleep just because every time he closed his eyes he saw Montparnasse’s green snake eyes and Mallory’s emancipated frame. The worst ones were when Mallory started to speak to him in Montparnasse’s voice or vice versa, then turned into an image of his mother, he always woke up sweating from those ones. 

His therapist, a kindly older handsomely greying man called Valjean (okay so he’s a total silver fox, but Grantaire lack of any sort of attraction to anyone other then He Who Must Not Be Named is fairly worrying in itself), said that dreams were a symptom of PTSD from the events from his childhood and subsequently what had happened to him when he was kidnapped. 

Great, now he was fucked up even more. Thanks Montparnasse. 

Grantaire had always thought PTSD was for war veterans but apparently the trauma didn’t need to be combat based to keep fucking with you after the fact. A few years of child abuse, throw in a bit of rape and kidnap and you’ve got the perfect recipe for PTSD. 

It definitely explained the paranoia, the panic attacks and the depression. And, perhaps, the drug abuse. It was nice to know it wasn’t all because of Grantaire’s own patheticness. 

And then there was the withdrawals. He had had the constant itching under his skin since he awoke and was now fighting off hot flushes and sweats. He was at least prepared for it though. Valjean had made sure everything was in place for Grantaire to go into withdrawal, and the symptoms had already started. And he knew people died from withdrawals, he just hoped he hadn’t had the last conversation he would ever have with Enjolras. 

He just hoped he could survive it. 

 

**********

 

Enjolras 

 

Enjolras rubbed his eyes as they started to blurrily unfocus yet again on the laptop in front of him. He blinked several times and looked up from the screen, taking in the off white walls that blended with the harsh lighting to the linoleum floor beneath them. The rigid plasticity of the blue of the chairs completed the thoroughly underwhelming and slightly depressing waiting room. He flicked his eyes to the time on his laptop screen and almost did a double take when he saw it was past 2 am. That’s what was the problem with hospitals; they ran almost completely contrarily to the cities cadence around them, even this city. At least out there the shrinking sunlight and the switch from sensible work clothes to slinky, shiny attire could attest to the changing time. But no, in a hospital the routine ran as if it was no slave to the sun, nurses clicked and clacked down the hall at all hours, doctors bustled about importantly in no rhythm with the darkening streets outside their kingdoms and patients continued to be sick and broken and admitted, their illnesses paying no mind to the time of day. 

Slowly he rubbed the kinks out in his shoulders and sat himself straight in the chair, ignoring the lancing pain in his back. The blue plastic chairs weren’t meant for long term use, but he already knew that, he had known that for several weeks now and yet still hadn’t managed to bring himself a pillow or a back brace, or hell even his own chair. Maybe he was subconsciously trying to punish himself, because what was a little back pain to the horrifying reality of Grantaire’s own pain. There was nothing he could do to ever come close to knowing what Grantaire had been put through over the past couple of months. 

Enjolras winced to remember that he had even the smallest part in it. He had gone through scenario upon scenario in his head of what he could have done, or how he could have prevented what had happened. Jehan had warned him about the damage that that sort of repetitive thought process could do to his psyche but Enjolras already knew, he was slipping. This is what happened the last time, when he was 17 and the pressure became too much, but he didn’t have Grantaire when he was 17, or at least the hope of Grantaire. The focus of Grantaire had kept him going through the past few weeks of basically living at the hospital, coming back even when the nurses warned him to stay away, using Combeferre to champion his civil liberties when they threatened to have him escorted off the premises. Grantaire had kept him going. But not once, not since that last time had he laid eyes on Grantaire had he sought him out, nor had he let anyone else tell Grantaire he was there. 

Courfeyrac told him it was creepy and Enjolras shrugged, he didn’t care; he didn’t even care if he never saw Grantaire ever again. All that mattered was that he was close enough, close enough to know if anything was happening in that hospital room was abnormal, or spelled emergency. 

He had switched all of his subjects to online, at least for this semester and had delegated a lot of the Les Amis’ work down the line. Enjolras’ no.1 priority right now was Grantaire. 

Enjolras had been focusing so hard on the crack in linoleum at his feet that he jumped when a figure entered his periphery vision. The kid had his back to him as he worked the snackfeed machine. His skinny frame swamped in the hospital gown he wore, one skinny white shoulder poking through the neck hole as he seemed to study the number puncher. His messy, uncombed dark hair hung dank and long, almost brushing his shoulders and yellowing bruises were obvious on his lower legs. There was a pair of crutches leaning against the wall and one of his knees was in some sort of brace.

Enjolras was just about to turn back to his work when something about the set of those shoulders tweaked his memory and he felt his entire body jerk, unfortunately that resulted in his chair squeaking back a couple of centimeters, the sound loud in the quiet area of the hospital. The boy’s shoulders jerked, and then he moved around gingerly, as if suspecting he may be under attack.

Those blazing blue eyes met Enjolras’ in a second and the familiar face gaped at him, “Enjolras?” Said a rusty voice, its pitch so high that the ending of his name turned to breath.

Enjolras swallowed convulsively for a second before clearing his throat, loudly in the echoing room, “Grantaire.”

Grantaire shut his mouth with a click and hugged his thin, blue veined arms around his alarmingly slim waist, “What are you…I mean how, um are you visiting someone else?” 

His pitch had returned to somewhat normality but still retained its breathy, hoarse quality and Enjolras was, once again, struck by how fragile Grantaire looked. Seeing him bruised and drugged had been one thing, but at least he still looked like Grantaire, whereas this man (for want of better word) who stood unsteadily before him looked gaunt, so gaunt that his cheekbones in a naturally cheerful rounded face, stood out stark like goal posts, and his bright glittering eyes stood too bright in grey pale skin which patterned down with healing, yellowing bruises to a scrawny neck and too prominent collar bones. 

Christ he looked like a teenager, a skinny, underfed teenager who didn’t own a comb. And the way he hugged himself, as if his skin and bone arms could offer protection against the big bad world. Against Enjolras. 

Enjolras shook his head, “No, no one else.”

Grantaire mouth moved slightly and his eyebrows furrowed but all he came out with was a small, “Oh.”

“You look well.” Enjolras said before cringing at the clear false note in his voice.

Grantaire laughed hollowly, “No I don’t, I look like complete shit..”

Enjolras searched wildly for something to say, before landing on, “Why do you look like shit?”

Grantaire’s eyes widened before a ghost of a grin flashed across his face and his over bright eyes twinkled slightly, “Still the same old Enjolras I see, looks like a clear case of rejection and several weeks living in a hospital waiting room has done little to curb your enthusiasm for the blunter things in life.”

Enjolras felt his heart flutter slightly, not at the words as such, but at Grantaire’s tone, at the attitude behind them, the ghost of the grin, he hadn’t lost him, not yet at least, Grantaire was still there, cynicism, wit, strength and intelligence all still in tact, despite everything. 

At Enjolras’ non reply Grantaire shook his head ruefully, “Nah, I look like shit because I’ve just been through two weeks of shakes, hallucinations and cravings so bad I thought they were going to kill me. Withdrawal sucks monkey nuts. No one really tells you how bad it’s going to be, you know?”

Enjolras nods, no amount of research, questions of Marius (that had been fun) or Google image searches could have really prepared him for the sight of Grantaire wearing a hospital gown like a kid wearing an sheet. Or the dark circles under Grantaire’s eyes, or the way his hands wouldn’t stop moving. 

“So, uh, you’re through the worst of it now?” Enjolras proceeds carefully, knowing that this meeting could dissolve into a fight or an argument just as soon as it could turn into him passing out from exhaustion, (that’s what staying up for 72 hours on end will do to you).

Grantaire shrugs his thin shoulders dismissively, “So they tell me. In fact I’m not supposed to be out of my rooms but I’m getting pretty sick of looking at four walls whilst I desperately wish for a thing that will most probably kill me before I’m 35, you know?”

Enjolras swallows and nods. “You gave them the slip?”

Grantaire’s smile is brittle, “Yep, and it’s even easier these days, now that I’m so goddamn skinny. Plus Marius doesn’t pay enough attention when Dr. Fauchelevent is on shift. He follows her like an a freaking shadow.”

“Uh, how are you though?” Enjolras asks, drawing on every once of patience he has not to grab Grantaire by his skinny shoulders and shake an answer out of him. 

Grantaire examines his hands, eyes not meeting Enjolras’ and he shrugs again, “Don’t tell me your little spies haven’t kept you updated with my every move,” he says, peaking a look at Enjolras through his long lashes, probably not meaning to be coy but achieving the look none the less.

Enjolras hides a wince his tone of voice, “Only that you pulled through, I didn’t want to hear anything else unless it was through you.”

Grantaire eyes him, “So you decided to what? Set up camp in a hospital waiting room ready to ambush me the moment I left my prison cell?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to argue but suddenly feels exhausted, drained. Sick of being drawn into petty back and forths with Grantaire, tired of feeling like his life is constantly on edge, and, in the end, is too goddamned relieved to see Grantaire alive to defend himself, “Yes.” He says finally, his voice clear but small. 

Astonishingly enough this makes Grantaire smile, softly, almost as if the expression was surprised out of him. Which, in turn, makes Enjolras smile. And then they just stand there like two blushing, smiling idiots, neither unwilling to break the fragile truce between them. 

Grantaire’s the one that breaks the uncharacteristic peace first, breaking eye contact with an awkward throat clear, “So you’ve really been out here all this time?” He asks again, his tone, this time, slightly awed and completely lacking animosity.

Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to shrug and frown uncomfortably, crossing his arms before answering with a slightly defensive “Of course.”

Grantaire looks at him in bemusement, “Don’t you have, like, tons of study and about 5 thousand extra curricular activities to be doing?”

Enjolras snorts, “Taken care of.”

Grantaire eyes him like he’s from another planet, “You do realize what you’re doing is like, stupidly impractical. You know, for your future career as savior of the galaxy or whatever it is you want to do.”

Enjolras doesn’t think so, but can’t summon the energy to argue with Grantaire, not tonight, not when the very space they seem to be occupying feels like its existing on a different plane. It is calm, peaceful, there hasn’t been a hustling nurse cross their path since they started talking, the only sounds have been the distant beeps of a heart monitor and the steady hum of the overhead industrial lights. The earth seems to have stilled between them, like the very hospital has drawn a breath and is holding it. Waiting. 

“It’s not.”

Grantaire looks at him again, that same unreadable look on his face, “But your study, your LesAmis, your stupid Care schedule. Hell even PR, you’ve been all over the news for catching Montparnasse for the past few weeks. Shouldn’t you be out there using this whole ‘heroic’ thing to push your message? It’s like the ultimate platform. Golden boy Enjolras saves white trash hooker from scary crime villain.” Grantaire says a touch derisively, except his tone is off, it’s not mocking, or contemptuous, more desperate and distracted and is accompanied by Grantaire’s arms coming back up to cradle his stomach, defensive and vulnerable.

“I mean, this shit practically writes itself.” Grantaire continues eyes not quite meeting Enjolras’.

Enjolras feels a little breathless, and worried; did Grantaire truly believe he would use him like that, exploit him? 

Enjolras grits his teeth, but gentles his tone, “You think we would do that to you? When are you going to trust that we’re not in this for the publicity or the glory or any other stupid reason? When are you going to trust us Grantaire? Because I’m getting sick of having to prove myself to you. You think I’d do that to you?” he says, starting to pace now, too revved up to stand still. “Because when I bared my soul to you two weeks ago I wasn’t just saying that for shits and giggles. I meant it when I said I was in love with you.” He takes a breath to steady himself before plunging forward, unwilling to look at Grantaire for a reaction, “and I know I probably haven’t done this the right way, I know I haven’t, but fuck, 2 months ago all I cared about was the LesAmis and Care and school. And now? And now I’m sleeping in a fucking hospital visitors room waiting to see if a guy, who not only rejected me but probably still hates me, is going to be ok.” Enjolras finishes the speech in a rush and breathing heavily, eyes still turned from Grantaire. 

He knows it wasn’t his finest speech, he knows it wasn’t eloquent or ground breaking, hell it fucking sounded like the cheesy line from a high school movie. But it had felt ripped from his very soul and he doubted there would ever be another moment when he would ever be as honest as he just was. 

Icy thin fingers clasp the sides of Enjolras’ face, urging him to look Grantaire straight on. Enjolras takes a breath and obeys and Grantaire is standing in front of him, his expression so open and vulnerable it makes Enjolras’ breath catch in his chest. The fingers remain like a vice, shaking slightly and so very fragile but as strong as steal, like the person they were attached to. 

“You don’t know how much I hated myself for what I did, what I said to you. It fucking broke my heart Apollo.” There are tears in his eyes but he’s not crying or sobbing, just letting them collect on his lids and fall, “You know what’s worse then withdrawal?” Grantaire asks, his voice hoarse, the shadow of a mocking half smile on his face as Enjolras shakes his head, “What’s worse is not knowing whether you were going to make it through the other side. What’s worse is never knowing whether you would ever able to go back and fix the major fuck up you made to the guy you were crazy over.”

Enjolras’ breath catches. 

Grantaire’s fingers leave Enjolras’ face and skim his neck, shoulders and arms leaving a trail of sparking warmth despite their coldness, before threading them through Enjolras’, “Seriously, that kiss was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me, I think the memory of it was the only thing that grounded me when I thought Avenging Angels were crawling through the walls to drag me to hell.”

Enjolras laughs, brokenly and a little wildly, “Angels, not demons?”

Grantaire smiles shakily, “Yeah, just a glimpse into my fucked up unconscious, apparently. We don’t really need a psychologist to pick apart that one, pretty self explanatory I think.”

Enjolras clears his throat, “So why did you?

Grantaire winces, “Reject you?”

Enjolras clears his throat, “Yeah.”

Grantaire breathes out steadily, “I’ve never claimed to be the most stable of people, and to be honest I didn’t really want to make any promises to you on the eve of possibly dying. And I still didn’t trust that you weren’t just making a decision with your dick.”

“And fuck I’ve talked it to death, I think you know the most shittiest things that have ever happened to me, you’ve even seen me naked and not in a remotely sexy way at all, you’ve seen me hooking, you’ve seen me at my worst. You’ve seen every single mistake I’ve ever made and still you think I’m worth hanging around in a shitty hospital room for, even without the guaranteed payoff of a blowjob. Fuck man.” 

Grantaire drops his hand to screw it through his hair, before looking back up at Enjolras, his face free of any of its normal sardonic mocking expressions, just flayed completely bare, “How the fuck did I ever get so fucking lucky, seriously, it’s like winning the lottery or something. I have no idea how I even landed on your radar, in any capacity. You’re just so, so fucking perfect.”

Enjolras shook his head, grabbing Grantaire’s hand, “Putting aside that you’re probably the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, or the most resilient, or the strongest, or the bravest, or the funniest. Putting aside all that, there’s a piece of me that, the same piece that pushes me to do LesAmis, to ace my tests, that just sings when I’m with you. Everything settles when I’m with you, like everything’s ok if your there with me. I don’t know if I ever told you but I’m not perfect. Far from it.”

Grantaire scoffs, his face a mask of disbelief, but Enjolras holds his gaze until suddenly, with a flash of realization, Enjolras sees now why Grantaire rejected him, it wasn’t just pride, or stubbornness, no, it was something else, something more intangible. 

Grantaire had even said it himself. Enjolras had seen Grantaire at his lowest and most vulnerable, fuck Enjolras had even asked to be with him with Grantaire was lying prone on a hospital bed, just having experienced the worst moments of his life, and all Grantaire had ever seen was the stupid, arrogant, pedestalled idealized Apollo Enjolras with all his armor and shield. Something, someone that wasn’t fucking real. Enjolras had always thought the asides Grantaire made about him were to mock him or sneer at him, but now? Now he realizes that Grantaire, underneath all the attitude and cynical amusement was just being honest. 

That was how he truly saw Enjolras, as an infallible god, a statue, an ideal when Enjolras was none of those things, if he was he wouldn’t have hit his best friend, he wouldn’t have had to have been locked away, he wouldn’t have given Grantaire up for dead 3 weeks ago. He would be better, perfect, the son his parents always wanted. But that was as impossibility. He knew that now, and he needed Grantaire to know it too. Or else they wont ever going to work. Or else there was always going to be this imbalance of power, except that Grantaire had been the only one smart enough to see it and had done the thing he had always done, protected himself, survived. 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, telling the story would be hard, one of the hardest things he’d ever have to do, but never getting the chance to be with Grantaire? That would be the fucking hardest thing of all. 

“I had a breakdown when I was seventeen. Not just a panic attack, but a full on melt down, it was almost classed as a psychosis. I broke Courfeyrac’s nose. I had to be hospitalized in a secure mental health facility for 6 months.”

Grantaire stared at him, blue eyes wide and mouth comically frozen open.

“What?”

Enjolras continued, “Ever since I was a kid there was so much pressure on me to get straight A’s, to not mess up at school, to be perfect. I had a huge weight of expectation on me from my parents because of how intelligent and wealthy they were. I was already an anxious child, and I never had any friends, I never had anyone to talk too, no siblings and no matter how hard I tried it was never good enough. It got a bit better when I met Jehan and the others and I finally found something that I was passionate about. But then it all sort of fell apart in senior year, the pressure of finals, of establishing the LesAmis, my parents hounding me, it all got to be too much and I cracked.” Enjolras sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “I mean I’m better then I was but I’m still not perfect, I still have to fight negative repetitive thought patterns and obsessing. I still suffer from constant anxiety and some minor OCD. But when I mean melt down, I was literally crazy. They had to sedate me for three days before I calmed down.”

Grantaire looks flabbergasted and Enjolras takes a sick sort of pleasure in finally being able to shock the unshakable Grantaire. 

“What happened?” Grantaire finally half whispers into the stillness of the hallway. 

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and breaks eye contact, he examines the lino floor beneath him, “I got better,” he says with a shaky laugh, “Listened and talked to my psychiatrist, took valium for a while, got it back under control and came back to take my finals. And then the second I turned 18 I moved out of my home and went to live with Combeferre. That helped with the whole parents and anxiety thing.”

Enjolras glances back up he sees Grantaire looking at him, something like awe on his face.

“But you came back, you beat it?”

Enjolras shakes his head, “I didn’t beat anything. You don’t beat stuff like that, you just develop better ways of coping. When I start to become overwhelmed now, I have to go through a checklist to make sure I’m doing everything I need to and if I need to take a break I do. If I don’t, it can get bad, really bad.”

Grantaire finally looks away and nods, “So that’s why you’re a high strung perfectionist control freak?”

Enjolras swallows back a retort, “Yeah. I mean its sort of part of my personality but when I get too bad, Jehan or someone lets me know. I usually can’t tell. It’s hard to differentiate the person from the disease sometimes. It can get pretty jumbled in there.” He says, pointing to his head. 

Grantaire looks up, “So what is it? Depression? Bipolar? Anxiety?” The look in his eyes is hard to read, it’s a little desperate but also sharp like Enjolras wont be able to get away with lying or half truths. Once again Enjolras finds himself thinking what a great lawyer Grantaire would make. 

“It’s sort of a mix, I have an anxiety disorder which can trigger some OCD tendencies, and I have elements of bipolar, buts its mainly manifests obsessiveness and overwork and not sleeping rather then mania. I had bouts of depression in hospital but I was told that was normal.”

Grantaire snorts and says, “I’ll say.”

“And if it gets really bad I don’t eat or sleep.”

“And get violent?”

“That was only the one time, and I hated myself for it. I didn’t even know it was Courfeyrac that was trying to help, I just reacted.”

Grantaire looks at him carefully and must be satisfied with what he sees as he nods, “So it was full on melt down, huh?” 

Enjolras nods and Grantaire looks thoughtful before grinning, “I can picture it. Tell me there was lots of quotes of Voltaire and diatribes against capitalism.”

This shocks a laugh out of him and he reluctantly nods, “And Marx, don’t forget about Marx. I don’t remember much but Courfeyrac assures me there was plenty on Marx. God knows why, I never liked him that much. ”

Grantaire grins and Enjolras feels himself deflating, in wonder that something he had previously felt so ashamed, so embarrassed about could be made better just through Grantaire’s easy acceptance and joking. 

“It really doesn’t bother you? I broke Courfeyrac’s nose.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to laugh, “Man I’ve broke way more noses then you’ve even seen.”

“But it really doesn’t bother you?”

Grantaire’s face sobers, “Are you kidding? You’ve waded through all my shit for the past few months and you think I’m going to care about a breakdown? Fuck man, you’re still Apollo, you’re still out there every fucking day trying to save people. Just the fact that you came back from something like that and still want to change the fucking world? I mean that tells me all I need to know.”

Enjolras frowned, he’d never thought of it like that. For so long it had been his dirty little secret, something to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. He’d never seen getting back to relative normality as a victory. He’d never seen strength in his experience, only weakness and failure. Something drilled into him from his parents at such a young age that he’d never be fully rid of it.

Grantaire blew out a breath, “You know I never thought you were perfect Enjolras, not in the sense that you define it. It’s just that when I met you I instinctively knew you were sort of ridiculously strong and brave and I think I resented it. And to hear that you’re just as fucked up as the rest of us? That you’re just as much human as us? I don’t know about you but that just makes you better. You were fucked up by your parents and your own personality was your enemy, you had a fucking mental break down and yet you came back. Like bigger and better then ever. You didn’t fucking give up, even though your own mind was against you. That’s fucking prime movie material there. And I get that you think I idolize you for the wrong reasons, that I don’t think you’re human. But that’s wrong. I don’t idolize you, I know exactly who you are, I knew it when I met you and I know it now. You’re Enjolras, Apollo, fucking fighter for the people.” He says breathlessly, his face pale, “And you want to be with me. And I’m scared I’m going to fuck it up, and hurt you again. Or fall off the wagon. Or do anything that will make you wish you’d never met me. ”

Enjolras tries not to feel choked up at the words but fails, he opens his mouth to speak but is unable to articulate properly what he wants to say (which for him is a probable first). Finally he manages to gather his scattered thoughts and at least semi articulate what he wants to say. He starts off slow, “First of all, love, at least for me, isn’t conditional, so yeah, you might hurt me or fall off the wagon, doesn’t mean I’m just going to up and leave you. Fuck if you know me like you say you do then you know I don’t do things halfway, if we’re going to do this, then I’m in it for the long haul, for everything. And who’s to say I wont hurt you, or stuff things up?”

When Enjolras looks up Grantaire has moved closer, his expression serious and slightly fearful, like Enjolras is some sort of mirage that will disappear if he takes his eyes off it for just a second.

“So you want me?” Grantaire asks and then hastily amends, “And not just in the biblical sense, but in the holding hands and dinner dates and kissing sense?” Grantaire’s voice becomes more tentative as the sentence escapes his mouth and he finishes it as a question, he finishes with, “We could be something, couldn’t we?”

Enjolras wants to scream for joy and run and jump and dance but manages to contain himself to a quick nod, “Yes, fuck, yes.” He manages to rasp out, his surprise being quickly replaced by eagerness to do, say yes to anything he might be able to get.

“Along with all the baggage? Because take it from an expert, alcoholism can’t ever be really beaten, I mean that’s what Dr. Fauchelevent tells me. You have to know that. I mean if we’re ever going to be a thing.”

Enjolras isn’t quite sure what “a thing” means but its not like he’d ever gone about anything the easy way, why should his one and only romantic relationship be any different? If wasn’t like he was ill prepared, he knew more about drug addiction, alcoholism and mental illness thanks to exhaustive research and hundreds of Care visits. He wasn’t ever going in blind. And the payoff was more then worth it, because Grantaire? Grantaire was so very mush worth it. 

“I get it, I got it. You wont ever not have my support. In that or anything. You have to know that Grantaire. You have me, all of me. You always did.”

Grantaire looks at him in wonder and slight exasperation, “This is it for you, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire looks perplexed; “I mean there will never be anyone else for you, ever.”

Enjolras feels blindsided, and a little bewildered, “Isn’t that what being in love means?”

Grantaire blinks his eyes quickly and says mutedly, “Sure I mean that’s what everyone says, but then reality sets in and they realize that love isn’t enough and they move on. But you’ve fucking put all your eggs in one basket. For me. Like a stupid fairytale. I can see it in your face. If I up and die tomorrow you’ll never look for anyone else.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how to answer, he knows Grantaire is right but doesn’t want to wreck anything, he knows people love differently, he knows that if he were the one to die that Grantaire would move on. It’s ok, he just has to make sure that can never happen, which means not dying. Sounds easy enough. 

But, as usual, Grantaire reads him like a book and shakes his head, “Are you kidding me? I was gone on you the moment I saw you. I didn’t believe in all that one true love bullshit until that moment so don’t be thinking that you’re the only one with all their eggs in one basket. Apollo.” 

Enjolras gives a shaky smile, “Well then we’ve got a lot of eggs between us.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Grantaire quips back before becoming serious, “I just want you to know that shits gunna get bad sometimes though, like real bad. Like your dicks not something so freaking magical that it’s just going to heal me.”

Enjolras shrugs and lets his lips twitch in a semblance of a smile, “I well aware my penis’ lack of magical properties.”

Grantaire moves closer and links his hand with Enjolras’ “Is it weird that you saying ‘penis’ is a total turn on? Coz it totally is.”

Enjolras lets out a breathless laugh at Grantaire’s proximity, still unwilling to believe that this was actually happening, “Does that mean I can kiss you again?”

Grantaire moves his face close enough for their noses to bump and breaths a “Yes,” before capturing Enjolras’ lips in a heart stoppingly tender kiss, so gentle it barely stirs the air around them. 

Grantaire tastes like hospital and candy and it’s Enjolras new favorite new taste, as is the tiny little noise of whimper that Grantaire lets out before breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against Enjolras’s nose. His eyes closed. 

“Not that that probably was the most romantic fucking thing that has ever happened to me but the fact that I’m about 2 minutes away from passing out is probably a good reason to take a raincheck on where this could possibly lead.”

Enjolras is instantly concerned, Grantaire’s small frame leans against him and his breathing has become slightly labored. The dark shadows under his eyes look like bruises and he’d been limping. 

“Grantaire?” He says hurriedly, scared that he’ll lose Grantaire all over again, “Do I need to call a nurse?”

Grantaire sleepily opens his eyes and smiles faintly, “Nah, but could you possibly help me back to my room before I manfully swoon on you?”

Enjolras laughs a little in relief, “Sure.” And gets an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders taking a little of his weight,

“Do you need directions?” Grantaire asks sleepily

Enjolras shakes his head, “no” and Grantaire snorts out a laugh, “God you’re such a stalker.”

Enjolras jostles his shoulder, “Your stalker though.”

Grantaire sighs theoretically, “My very own Apollo stalker. Everything a gayboy could possibly want!”

“You’re such a loser.” Enjolras laughs out, Grantaire feeling impossibly light in his arms.

“Your loser though, Apollo.” Grantaire slurs out, his eyes closed but a dreamy half smile on his face. 

And Enjolras says nothing because the moment is perfect and it’s finally true. 

 

 

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it does say the end, which means its the end of this story - but the next chap will be an epilogue!
> 
> so let me know how you liked it! was it too sappy, too angsty, just right? Comment and kudos below :)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys are enjoying it! :) Let me know what you're liking about the fic so far!


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